


The Natural

by incandescent (lmeden)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Gen, Inception Big Bang Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:10:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/incandescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Cobb tells his father that he’s visiting his sister in London for spring break, but he tells Phillipa the truth: that he's coming to London to meet a woman who can show him a way into the dreaming - a woman named Ariadne. In the end, like all stories, this is a tale of love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Natural

**Author's Note:**

> Posted [here on livejournal.](http://leavesogold.livejournal.com/15062.html)
>
>> I thought of the basic idea behind this story two years ago, wrote it in a word document, saved it to my 'planning' folder, and then promptly forgot about it altogether. After last year's , I thought that I was finished with this fest, and the Inception fandom, too. I felt tapped out, and didn't really have any new ideas that inspired me. But when the sign ups for this came around this summer, I checked through my 'planning' folder all the same, just to see if there were any good ideas. And I found this one. It immediately excited and inspired me, and I wrote a massive plot outline for it over the next few days. And then promptly signed up for this fest. I'm so proud of this story. I think it's the best thing I've written to date, and it has thrilled me from beginning to end. Despite a massively busy fall and winter, I finished this, making it the longest story that I've ever written (by about about 10K). 
>> 
>> I was also lucky enough to have been chosen by [neomeruru](http://neomeruru.livejournal.com/) for the story she would like to illustrate. She is one of my top five fanartists, and I was beyond thrilled to have been picked by her. Her art is stunning. Despite the fact that I was writing until the last minute, kept revising things, and even threatened to change the imagery of the story completely at one point, she stuck with me and produced two of the most stunning pieces of art ever. I feel so privileged to have been able to work with her, and to have her talents associated with this story. That alone made all the effort worth it. 
>> 
>> Thank you to [epistolic](http://epistolic.livejournal.com/), for beta'ing this story. Despite the fact that we live just about as far apart as it's possible for two people to be, and the fact that we both had ridiculously busy schedules, she made time for me and my story, and that means more to me than I can say. Darling, you're a truly lovely and amazing person, and your keen thoughts and advice made this story a thousand times better. You're a star, and I'm so grateful you were here for me. Thank you also to my friends list (especially [eustacia_vye28](http://eustacia-vye28.livejournal.com/)), for listening to me exclaim over this fic, cry over it, and generally bore you all to tears. You never let me down, and I hope that you enjoy this, now that it's finished and you can finally figure out what I'm talking about. 
>> 
>> I hope you all like this story! It was a labor of love for me, and now that I've finished thanking everyone, I think it can stand on its own. Enjoy!

 

James flies in his dreams. He looks down on the world from above, his arms spread like wings to catch the wind. The ground stretches out beneath him and he banks, swooping low to land upon the roof of the house. He grins down at Phil, for his sister is stuck on the earth below (for once) and glaring up at him.

Just as he raises his hand to wave, he hears a creaking step behind him and whirls, arms catching the wind and keeping him balanced. Dad stands on the roof, arms crossed over his chest.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks.

James blinks. His grin slips to the side, then steadies. “I’m flying,” he says. It doesn’t matter that it’s impossible, that Dad will never believe him, because he _is_.

Dad shakes his head and steps close, body tilted with the slope of the roof. Carefully, James straightens to meet him.

“There’s no such thing as flying in dreams,” Dad says, and before James has time to frown, his father has reached out and shoved him off balance.

James slips, sliding down to the edge of the roof and off into empty air. He flails, wings suddenly useless, and opens his mouth to scream. The sound is choked, caught in his throat; he cannot breathe.

Vertigo swoops over him and forces him to the surface.

James’ eyes flash open and he gasps, staring wide-eyed at the dark ceiling of his room. _Damn._ He loves it when he dreams of flying. Why was this one so strange?

He shifts, intending to go back to sleep, but finds that his heart is still pounding and his hands are trembling. His gaze restlessly shifts over the curtains dimming the light from outside and the dark edges of the posters on his walls. Grimacing, he sits up and pulls the cord on the light next to his bed. It comes on strong and he flinches away from it, closing his eyes and shoving his hands beneath his pillow.

 _Ah_ , he thinks. _There_. He grasps the papers that he’d hidden beneath the pillow and draws them out. Squinting, he peers at the words once more.

> …the subject shows marked signs of degeneration in the frontal cortex, though whether this is connected to experiments or caused by a previously undetected condition cannot be distinguished at this time. Regardless, subject 0829’s dreaming continues uninhibited. The newest formulation of somnacin (v. 208) has created a thick atmosphere in the dreaming, causing the creation of dreamscapes so rich and absorbing that the trained dreamers on this project have had difficulties differentiating between the fabric of the dream and reality, at times. As recorded on 12.3.19, consulting dreamer Dominic Cobb attested that “the newest formula has the benefit of creating a detailed and realistic landscape for dreaming, but does not create a solid foundation for leveled, or even stable, dreamscapes” (see Appendix A89). This observation is not unique to Cobb, though his testimony as to its effect on the dreaming has been the most concise and detailed. More consultation…

The document continues for pages. James doesn’t understand much of what is written, but he knows this much – it’s about Dad, and it’s about Dad’s life before James and Phil.

James leans back against the wall, pillow bunched behind him. In the lamplight, his posters wink at him; his old idols from childhood – Iron Man and Thor and Batman – mixing with reproductions of Ernst and Bosch paintings to create a landscape that is, for once, more confusing than comforting. Ever since leaving for college, this doesn’t feel like his room anymore; half the time he feels like a stranger in his own house.

Especially now, with secrets in his hands.

The _dreaming_. It’s a mystery to James because Dad never talks about it, because he never tells James anything. It hadn’t been James’ fault that he’d been bored, sick of the shadows and silence in this house. It hadn’t been his fault that Dad wasn’t home and had left his desk unlocked and his _papers_ everywhere. Once James had touched the documents and seen what they were about, there was no letting go.

And he’d only taken one sheaf of papers. Every drawer of the desk had been full.

James sighs and glances at the door. It’s closed, and he can’t hear anything from beyond it, but it would be just like his father to come in at the very worst time. Nervousness curdling inside him, he turns on his side and peers at the papers again. They crunch in his grasp.

 _Ariadne_ , says a note in the margin (in Dad’s handwriting). And beneath it, _9379834182726_

James’ gaze drifts to his cell on the bedside table. He’s very awake now, despite the fact that it’s the middle of the night.

Maybe this Ariadne can tell him something.

James hesitates for a moment longer, biting his lip, before something breaks within him and he reaches out, fingers trembling as he dials.

-

James sways at the top of the stairs, vertigo setting him off balance.

He reaches for the back of one of the seats, fighting back nausea. He hadn’t thought Ariadne’s classroom would be like this; row after row of amphitheater seating, broken up by a steep set of steps that leads down the center, plunging between the crowded lines of chairs.

He can see himself tumbling down those stairs.

But he can’t let that affect him. This is his first meeting with Ariadne. She’d sounded so kind on the phone – American with the hint of a British accent creeping in – that he doesn’t want to disappoint her.

Gritting his teeth, James forces his eyes open. There she is, far below, standing at the base of the steps. She looks so small, and there’s so much height between them. His stomach swoops.

She reaches up and waves at James. “Come down!” she says. Her voice is clear, echoing through the room.

James looks at his feet, unable to peer all the way down at her any longer.

“Be right there!” he calls back, cursing internally as his voice wavers.

He moves forward, staring carefully at the first step and no more; _not_ at the open air in front of him, _not_ at the rows and rows of seating below, _not_ at the steep grade of the stairs. It isn’t so bad, if he doesn’t look.

He steps down, looking to the next step and taking in a deep, bracing breath. His gaze threatens to drift upwards, defiant and trying to send him off balance. He knows that to look would be to invite doom; his knees would give out and he’d have to sit to gather himself once more, and starting a second time would be doubly difficult.

James works his way towards Ariadne, gaze flicking up just high enough to catch sight of the next seat. His stomach churns and lurches, but by gritting his teeth he can move through it; he hopes Ariadne isn’t watching, but he knows better than to look.

After a moment more, he sees the welcome, worn expanse of the classroom floor stretching before him. He stumbles down onto it, knees wavering. Releasing his grip on the last seat, James flexes his fingers behind his back and looks up, smiling forcefully.

“Hello,” he says.

Ariadne has turned so that her back is to James, and she is bent over a low table. Her hand presses flat on the papers spread across it. 

James can’t help but follow the slim curves of her arms with his eyes, notice how her thin blouse clings to her figure, how the loose trousers she wears fall from her hips. She turns at James’ voice and smiles at him; he swallows. Sunlight streams in through the tall windows, making her dark hair gleam as it curls over her cheek, partially obscuring a pale, straight scar running along her cheekbone.

“I’m glad you could come, James,” she says, stepping forward.

James shakes her hand and nods. “I’ve wanted to meet you for a very long time.”

Ariadne’s smile widens and James watches the thin lines around the corners of her eyes deepen and the scar crinkle. It’s the only thing that mars her beauty, and James can’t seem to look away from it. 

“Really?” she says. “I’m not sure that’s true.” Something about the quirk of her smile makes James think she’s teasing him. She reaches up and pushes her hair behind her shoulder; silver strands threaded through it glinting in the light. “You said on the phone that you hadn’t even known I existed until a few months ago.”

Dust motes shift in the air around her, glowing white against her pale skin. She is effortless and beautiful. James opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. This moment seems so clear, crystalline and timeless. He struggles to freeze it in his mind.

“Let me clean up,” she says, after a long pause. She gestures towards her papers. “We can go somewhere more comfortable to talk.”

James opens his mouth to ask if he can help, then shuts it as she moves to the table and gathers up the papers in one smooth movement. She doesn’t need his help at all.

“Why don’t we grab something to eat while we talk,” she says, turning round. “I know a great cafe just around the corner. You can tell me all about yourself.” Her gaze passes over him like a physical touch, briefly, a dark flick of the eyes. “After all, I don’t know anything about you.”

Her tone is sharp-edged. James wonders whether she’d ever talked to Dad about him, whether she’d known he existed at all. Or maybe she’d been forced to listen to the phone ring and ring while Dad ignored her calls. James has the feeling that she and Dad don’t talk anymore.

He watches her slide her papers into a briefcase and feels suddenly bereft. Who is this woman?

-

“So,” Ariadne says, setting a cup of coffee in front of James with a clink, “tell me about yourself.”

The London café bustles around them, encircling James in a crowded quilt of anonymity. He curls his fingers around the mug and pulls it towards him; the sharp sting of hot ceramic sinks into his fingers. London in April is _cold_. He watches Ariadne sip her own drink as steam curls up around her nose and obscures her eyes.

“Well,” he begins. What is there to say? He’s normal – utterly, boringly normal. “I’m nineteen, I’m studying Art History—“

“Really!” Ariadne exclaims softly, cutting him off. James’ teeth clicks shut. “Don’t stop, please. It’s just that I hadn’t expected you to be studying Art History. You’ve surprised me already.” James isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not. She smiles at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

“There’s not much else to say about me. I grew up with Dad and Phil. Of course, you know Dad, or knew him, but have you met Phil? My sister, Phillipa, I mean. She said she didn’t know you, but.”

James swallows his nervousness and stops. He’s babbling. He’s so close - all he needs is to take that last breath and just _ask_.

“I never actually—” she begins, but James has also begun and once the words are on the tip of his tongue, he can’t stop them. They tumble out, cutting across her words.

“What- what can you tell me about the dreaming?” The question he’s practiced a thousand times in his mind is now nearly incoherent as the words run together in a nervous rush.

Ariadne’s eyebrows rise and lips purse. Her fingers curl around her coffee and she lifts it. After a moment, she shrugs, and the rising steam obscures her expression once more.

“The son of Dom Cobb, asking _me_ about the dreaming,” she muses, then shrugs. “I could tell you many things. About Freud and Jung, about the ‘meaning of dreams’, or just the simple fact that a dream is an expression of the subconscious. But I don’t think that’s what you want to know.”

James bites at the inside of his cheeks in savage impatience. Will she tell him, or not?

“Dad doesn’t like to talk about it,” he bites out. “I mean, he’s said some things, like how he met Mom in the dreaming business, and that he stopped dreaming because of her. He’s never told me anything more. From how he talks about it, though, I get the feeling it’s something secret.” James hesitates. “I know that the things he’s let slip are a bit crazy - they _can’t_ be true – things about paradoxes, fantasy landscapes, and... and something about eternity.”

James can’t bring himself to believe that all the things his father has alluded to or said in passing are true. It’s too much, too strange. But secretly, he’s always hoped they were true. He’s always thought that maybe, one day, he could create eternity in a dream. Create perfection.

It’s stupid.

Ariadne’s frown is visible through the steam from her coffee, which is thinning rapidly. “Ah. This isn’t a good place to talk, after all.” She pauses and sets her cup down. “I want to know something first, though - how did you get my number? I haven’t spoken to your father in almost fifteen years, and if he doesn’t talk about the dreaming, I can’t imagine how you found me.”

That’s almost as long as James has been _alive_. Yet Ariadne had been so friendly when he called, so open to meeting with him.

“Oh,” he says, trying to gather his thoughts. “I found some of Dad’s old papers, and your name and number was on them. I saw they had to do with dreaming, so I tried calling. I just… needed to know more.”

Ariadne’s lips purse and she glances down. “Had my name on a paper, did he? Well, he always was sentimental. Had you heard about me before you found my number?”

James flushes, shaking his head. “Sorry, I—“

“Oh, no,” she says, forcefully cheerful. “I didn’t mean to say that you should know who I am. You never heard about why your father and I stopped speaking, did you?”

James shakes his head again, feeling more stupid by the moment. Ariadne sips her drink (by now, barely steaming at all) and smiles at him.

“I didn’t think so. And it isn’t important. Now.” Ariadne sets her cup down and waves to the server. The girl glances over. _Check_ , Ariadne mouths. “Let’s go. I have everything I need back in the classroom, and you can tell me just how much you’re interested in knowing about dreamshare. And how much you’re willing to sacrifice.”

“Dreamshare?” James’ tongue stumbles over the unfamiliar word. _Sacrifice?_ his mind whispers. He wants to know everything. What Dad did in the dreaming, why he stopped, how Ariadne is involved in it all, and what the dreaming is. James bites down on the words and laces his fingers together, squeezing them tight.

There are so many secrets in his family. Ever since he can remember, James has wanted to puzzle them out and find the truth. That desire has been a knot in his stomach and an itch in the back of his mind; it’s a yearning he’s never been able to fulfill, until now. Dad never wants to talk about the dreaming, or Mom, or anything that happened before James and Phil were born. 

“You’ll tell me everything?” he asks.

“As much as I can,” she says, sounding amused. She smiles and slides a ten pound note onto the table. “It’s the very least I can do for the son of the man who brought me into the dreaming.”

She stands and gathers her coat; James’ heart pounds hard. The man who introduced Ariadne to dreaming? _Dad_? It’s hard for James to imagine his father as anything more than the quiet man who raised him. What had he been like _before_? And what had made him change?

By the time James has gathered his thoughts into a question, Ariadne has shrugged her coat on over her sweater and is making her way towards the door. She turns back.

“Let’s go,” she says, and James rushes to grab his coat and catch up.

-

“I have to say, I never expected you to ask about the dreaming.” Ariadne looks like the kind of woman in a noir film who would smoke casually as she spoke. So far, she hasn’t actually done so, but James isn’t willing to discount the possibility.

Her hands are busy with something else instead. They are standing in the room behind her classroom – her office, James supposes, though it’s so crowded with papers and scale models of impossible buildings that he knows she only uses it for storage. She has slid a slim silver suitcase out from under her desk and laid it on top. Nimbly, she unlocks it and flicks the lid back, running her fingers over the mechanism within.

It, too, is silver. A small screen in the center reads shiny and black, and cream-colored tubes coil around metal cylinders within. James inches closer and peers at the contraption.

“Why not?” he asks.

“I thought your father would have told you all about the dreaming,” she says. She draws another case out – this one is dark fabric, which she unzips. “I thought he would have told you all about how dangerous dreaming is, how unpredictable. I thought you would have been encouraged to distrust the dreaming, and dreamers like me.” From this case, she pulls several slim paper envelopes. As she tears one open, James sees that it contains a sharp needle.

He swallows. “Why would he do that?”

“That,” Ariadne says, as she pulls one of the tubes through a port in the side of the case and carefully attaches the needle, “is something you’ll find out very shortly. Take a seat.” She gestures towards a padded chair behind James and he carefully shifts papers aside so he can sit. His hands clench around the armrests.

“This machine is called the PASIV. Portable Automated Somnacin Intra-Venous Device. It’s the main tool of dreamers. We use it to regulate how long we dream and how deep we go into the dreaming. The drug in here,” she gestures towards the clear vials on one side of the case, “is called somnacin. It allows dreamers to share their dreams and interact within them.”

James swallows, eyeing the needle and machine warily. Ariadne sits in the chair next to his.

“If you’re willing,” she says, “I can show you the dreaming firsthand.” Her gaze is steady on his, and James finds himself nodding before he can think the decision through.

“Wonderful.” She smiles and lays the tubing down, reaching for another line. She attaches a needle easily to the second and then sits back in her chair. “I’ll show you on myself first. It may seem strange, but I assure you, I’ve had years of practice. I know exactly what I’m doing.” Ariadne slips the buttons from her cuff and pushes it back, then slides the needle into the vein at her wrist.

James blinks, wide-eyed. It isn’t that needles or blood scare him, but that her movement was so casual and practiced. And that he can see the pinprick scars that dot the skin of her wrist. He wonders if the crooks of her elbows look the same.

“I need your hand,” she says, reaching out, and James wordlessly places his wrist in her palm. A sick nervousness curls through James, and he can hardly believe that he’s doing this. He hardly knows Ariadne – has it even been an hour since they met? Why is he trusting her to do this? All his instincts scream, _no_ , but James wants to see the dreaming more than he cares about what goes into his body, and so he pushes the whisper away.

The needle slides easily through James’ skin; it barely stings.

“Sit back,” Ariadne says, and he carefully does, resting his hand palm up on the arm of the chair. He stares down at the line running from his arm to the machine on the table.

Light from the single, wide window pours into the office, casting uneven shadows. Darkness hovers outside, above the buildings, behind each and every pile of papers, and James begins to think that his mind is getting carried away. He turns his gaze back to his arm and studies the skin at his wrist, distorted by the length of the needle.

It hardly hurts at all.

Ariadne takes a clear vial from the PASIV case and inserts it into the center of the machine. She turns to James.

“Relax. This is the only way to truly understand the dreaming. I’ll tell you more in the dream. If you have questions after we wake, I’ll answer them.” She reaches out and places her hand on the center of the machine. “Try not to worry too much. You’re safe with me.”

James nods, heart fluttering in his chest. He’s come this far, so why not trust her for a few more moments? It doesn’t sit well with him that he has to be injected with a drug to find out about dreams, but it does make a strange kind of sense: dreams are subconscious things, and an unconscious state cannot be summoned – it must be induced.

Ariadne presses down on a button in the center of the machine and sinks back into her own seat. With a smooth whir, the machine begins to pump.

James watches the tube warily, but nothing changes, and he doesn't feel anything creeping up under the skin of his arm. After a moment, his heart slows and his thoughts steady; his nervousness begins to ebb, then vanishes completely, along with everything else. 

-

 

 

 

 

He is in the middle of a field.

Browning grass pricks the back of James’ neck as he pushes himself up. The earth under his fingers is loose and sandy. He thinks back, confused for a moment. How did he get here? It looks like a neighbor’s farm, near home, but he doesn’t remember falling asleep there, or even going there. He’s certainly never dared walk through their fields before. He frowns and shifts, moving onto his knees to better see.

He has never been here before; this he suddenly knows for sure. The field he’s found himself in continues for as far as James can see. The sky is bright but gray, and James recognizes nothing. An anxious feeling crawls up his spine. He stands.

There is a soft noise behind James, and he whirls. A woman with long, dark hair and a scar on her cheek is standing in the grass (no, it’s wheat, he realizes suddenly) with him. James stares, caught off guard. Who is she? Then, as if he’s always known, he remembers.

“Ariadne.”

“Good,” she says. “If you hadn’t recognized me, we would have had a problem.”

“What do you--”

Ariadne glances over his shoulder, her expression grave. “It’s always a challenge for first-time dreamers to find their bearings. If you hadn’t known me, I wouldn’t have told you about the dreaming. I would’ve known you weren’t ready.”

James shivers, realizing just how close he has come to losing all the information he’d been searching for. Are there any other tests he needs to pass to learn about the dreaming? He can’t stand the thought of Ariadne watching him, judging him. “So what would you have done? Thrown me out of the dream?” His voice comes out harsh.

It sounds ridiculous to James. She can’t control this. He doesn’t even understand how they’re in the same dream, but he knows that his subconscious is involved; he won’t let her stop him from learning, and she can’t stop him from thinking.

Ariadne’s mouth twists into a wry smile. “Yeah, something like that.”

James turns, looking out across the golden field. There’s nothing there; just emptiness.

He looks back to Ariadne. This has to be a sham.

“You’re unimpressed, I know,” she says. “I was at first, as well. Your father always created exquisitely realistic dreams. Let me show you something.” Her gaze drifts from James’ face and she looks over his shoulder, eyes unfocused.

James turns and squints behind him, into the flat horizon, but sees nothing.

“I created this dream,” Ariadne says. James glances back to her. “I designed it for its simplicity, as well as its complexity. It is a loop of a very elementary kind – if you were to begin walking you’d come back to this exact place again and again. And you would never see anything but the wheat fields.”

Her eyes stay focused on the nothingness of the distance. James wonders how long it would take to walk the length of this dream. A day? A year? Would he just keep dreaming, unconscious for months at a time?

“This dream will always appear the same. On the surface, nothing changes. But look closer, James. Take any head of wheat and hold it close. No two plants in this dream are the same. You could walk here until you grow old and die, and you would never see a duplicate.”

A chill runs over James’ skin and he frowns. Can she really have dreamed up all these tiny details, millions and millions of them? He reaches out and brushes his fingers over the prickly heads of the plants. He can’t see any details from here, but he believes her nonetheless.

“That can’t be true,” James whispers, his mind stuck on one particular thing she’d said. “You couldn’t stay in a dream until you die. You’d _have_ to wake up eventually.” He knows that much. He may not have worked in the dreaming like his father, but he has had dreams before. And it’s basic logic – all sleepers wake.

“The sands of time run differently here,” she says. “You could dream here for five years, and wake up to find that five hours has passed. Or five minutes. It depends on the dream, and the mixture of somnacin. It’s never happened to me, true, but I’ve heard of it. From a very reliable source.” She flashes him a quick smile, which turns almost instantly into a frown. Her brows knit, and she sighs deeply. “Ah. There it is.”

James follows her gaze and sees that the sky behind him has changed. It’s darker, roiling with an oncoming storm. James steps back automatically, blinking in confusion. Where has it come from? Deep in the cloud, lightning flashes; it illuminates the darkness from within and turns it violet. The wheat field beneath ripples and lashes. Golden stalks fly up and disappear into the cloud. The air is heavy with darkness and rain, and the scent of something else. Dry, sandy dirt whips around him, stinging his cheeks.

James whirls. The light behind Ariadne casts her in silhouette. Her long hair lashes around her, pulled by the burgeoning wind. James steps forward.

“What did you do?” It’s the only question James can ask. She will kill them, here, with this storm, and James can’t imagine what will happen to his mind if it dies in a dream. 

“I already told you,” she says, the rasp of her voice nearly overwhelmed by the growing howl of the wind. “I created this dream.”

She moves forward, and James fights the urge to retreat, the cold wind of the storm a warning against his back. She reaches up and grasps James’s jaw. She is shorter than he is, but stronger; her grasp is wiry and dry.

In the dimming light, James sees that her eyes are wide and that a smile dances around the edge of her lips.

“You must never think you can know a dream, James. That expectation will always prove wrong.”

She holds out her other hand; with a shock, James sees that she’s holding a small tower. It’s a rook, a chess piece made of glinting metal, balanced steadily on her palm.

“What --” James reaches for the object, confused, but she steps back, pulling it out of his reach.

“Wait. Let me show you something.” With a small flourish, like a magician, Ariadne lifts her hand up to the level of her eyes, and then flips her palm down.

James’ gaze flicks towards the ground automatically, then back up when he doesn’t find the rook. There it is – perched upon her palm and perfectly upside down.

“This is my totem,” she says when James gapes at it. “It reacts to dreams differently than it would react to reality, and lets me know in no uncertain terms when I’m dreaming and when I’m awake.”

Her palm rotates back up, and James watches wordlessly as the rook turns upward with it. Before he can pause to think, he steps forward and moves his hand through the air surrounding Ariadne’s hand.

“Impossible,” he breathes. “So when you flip it, you know you’re dreaming.”

Ariadne smiles. “Not quite. This is just to show you about the possibilities of the dreaming; anything is, of course, possible.” She drops her hand down to her waist, the rook disappearing from her hand in one smooth motion. “My totem has other secrets, other ways to tell me that I’m dreaming.”

“What are they?”

Ariadne lifts her brow. “You’ll never know. No one will. A totem must show _you_ that you’re dreaming, but no one else. Otherwise, that person could manipulate the dreaming, and you’d be lost here.” She pauses. “Forever.”

A chill runs through James. What secrets could Ariadne’s totem hold? It seems like such a simple thing; anyone could trick her into getting lost in dreams. 

Could he? 

He tries, for a moment, to imagine himself asleep, and not awake as his mind insists that he is. He thinks back to his childhood, when imagination was so much easier and finding something hidden in his pocket was its own kind of magic, and reaches down into his.

He holds himself still for a moment, feeling the wind of the oncoming storm push around him, then pulls his hand out of the pocket. In it rests a small rook, a bit lumpy, but the right color and heavy in his palm. “Is it like this?” he asks. “Your totem?”

Ariadne’s eyes fly wide when she spies what rests in his palm. She reaches out, and James pulls back. She stares for a moment longer, and then looks up, a smile touching her lips. Her next words are almost lost in a sudden howl of the wind. “I should have known you’d be a natural.”

She gestures, a careless move that pushes an armful of wheat aside, and reveals a pair of chairs sitting in the midst of the stalks as if they’d been there the whole time – and maybe they had been, because James certainly hadn’t looked. James folds the rook away into his palm, and when he looks again, it’s gone.

He isn’t sure how he did that, but it felt like a whisper against his mind.

Ariadne settles smoothly into a chair and gestures for James to take the other. He does, and his heart pounds through his shirt as he listens to the rustling wheat and gazes up at the never-ending sky, filled with possibility. The storm is holding back, turning to the side and blowing around them.

“I am going to make you an offer,” Ariadne says. “You’re obviously meant to be in the dreaming – it’s a shame that your father never brought you into it. I want to work with you and see what you can do. I want to introduce you to dreamshare.”

She pauses, leaving the question unasked.

“How?” James asks in lieu of an answer.

“I have a job,” she says. Her eyes are wide; she looks much younger than she had in the classroom, and James wonders whether it’s the dream’s doing. “There is a client who is paying me to infiltrate the dreams of another man. I’ve been planning this job for a very long time, but haven’t yet been able to complete it. I had planned to work alone, but... cannot. I need another dreamer to help me design the dream, and I think you’re an ideal partner. Work with me. I can teach you more about the dreaming. I’ll show you what really goes into dream crime.”

“Crime? I never thought—“

“I’m sure you didn’t. No one ever expects that dreams can be the scene of a crime. But that’s what dreamshare is all about.” She pauses and sits back. “It’s a dirty business, James, and that’s why your father got out of it. But I don’t care about your father right now. I want to know what you want. Will you return home, or join me in the dreaming?”

When he hesitates, she leans forward; places her elbows on her knees. “You know, the best things are never legal,” she says, and surprises a laugh out of James.

“So you’re asking me to break the law for you,” he says, lingering over the words like a question.

“No,” she responds. “I’m asking you to break it _with_ me.”

He holds his breath and looks up, watching the storm gather in the air behind Ariadne, wind whipping her brown hair into her eyes, a small smile dancing around the edge of her lips. The dream doesn’t smell like a storm any more. 

It smells dry and hot, like the desert.

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah, I’ll work with you.” 

 

 

 

 

-

James wakes with a shiver already wracking his body. He hisses as his fingers tremble and his muscles shudder, and he reaches with unsteady hands for the tube that trails from his arm.

“Hang on, hang on,” Ariadne mutters as she shifts over. Light flexes through the tubing that still spools from her own arm, spilling across the floor. She presses James’ arm down and hushes him. “I’ve seen this happen before; don’t worry about it. The somnacin can cause a bad reaction the first time you use it, but I guarantee you won’t feel a thing next time.”

The needle is gone, the tubing vanished. James lets out a shuddering sigh. “The drug?” he stutters, teeth clicking together.

Ariadne nods and deftly pulls the needle from her own skin. She reaches out and grasps James’ hands, rubbing them quickly and forcefully. “Just give it a few minutes and you’ll be fine.”

She rubs his hands for a moment longer, careful of the wrist where she’d placed the needle. The friction of her hands burns. “There. You should be fine, now.”

He’s still shaking; unsure and trembling inside as well as out. What did he just agree to in the dream? He can almost remember, but otherwise it’s strangely fuzzy.

Ariadne glances at her wrist, twisting her watch around to see its face. “You should go,” she’s saying. “Get a cup of tea, go back to wherever you’re staying, and rest. I’ll call you soon and we can discuss the job. I have to teach a class now.” She stands and brushes her pants off, reaches down to redo the button of her cuff.

As James looks up at her, all he can think of is the endless landscape reflected in her eyes and the thousands of universes that must live in her mind.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, unsure himself of how true that is. “You can call me tomorrow.” His voice isn’t shaking anymore and his fingers feel steady as they dig into his thighs.

Ariadne smiles. “Perfect. I’ll show you the back door.”

She offers him a hand.

-

Phil is bouncing around the apartment when James lets himself in, and she whirls in the middle of her frenetic pacing to seize the remote and mute the TV before turning on him.

“Well?” she demands. “How did it go? What did she tell you?”

James opens his mouth because he always answers his sister before thinking, responds to her demands first because it’s what he’s _always_ done, and he can’t think of doing anything else, but he really has no idea what to say. How can he describe the dreaming? How can he explain that Ariadne wants to work with him without seeming like a lunatic?

Just then the phone rings, a loud trill that breaks through James’ thoughts and makes him jump.

“Shit!” Phil shouts. “Shitfuck!” She darts across the room, seizes the phone from the hook, and takes a deep breath.

“Hello?” The tension on her face immediately ratchets up as she listens and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, Dad, he’s here,” she says. She walks across the room and thrusts the phone towards James. He swallows and takes it, and Phil flings herself down on the couch. “Shit,” she mutters, scrubbing a hand across her face.

“Dad?” He turns away from Phil, heart beating fast. Watching her sulk won’t help his nerves any. How could Dad have known to call now?

“James,” his father says on the other end of the line. His voice is warm and pleased, and James feels immediately guilty for having lied to him. “How’s spring break? Having fun with Phil? I’m sure London is very exciting.”

“Oh, yeah, Dad, it’s great here.” James is hard pressed to sound enthusiastic. The silence after his reply seethes, filled with a dull white noise caused by the distance.

“What’s wrong?”

Dad sounds so worried, almost suspicious. James frowns to himself and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Nothing!” he says, forcefully cheerful. “I’m just tired; Phil and I had a long day exploring the city, didn’t we, Phil?”

He glances back over his shoulder. Phil grimaces at him. “Yeah,” she calls back, loud enough that Dad can hear. “It was a great day, really tiring. It’s just a shame I’m so exhausted I can’t _remember_ any of it.”

James flips her off as his father chuckles on the other end. “Sounds like you had a great day, if Phil is so crabby. Get some food into her quick, or she’ll bite your head off.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that.” James’ emotions twist inside him, conflicted and niggling. He loves his father, and the sound of his voice makes James feel comforted and happy, but he also knows that he’s deceiving him right now, lying to him with every indrawn breath that he doesn’t mention he’s met with Ariadne. He can’t keep this up. It’s too much. “Look, Dad…”

“Oh, I know,” his father says quickly. “I’m keeping you too long. You want to do your own thing; relax and have a drink, I bet. I won’t keep you. I just wanted to check in and see how you were doing.”

“I’m good, Dad. Really good.” James knows that his voice is too quiet, too sad for the moment. He should be happier, more excited to be spending time with Phil. He knows that Dad will get suspicious if James doesn’t begin to sound pleased to be seeing his sister and London, which he sees twice a year and never, respectively.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it. Have fun tonight! I’ll call tomorrow or the next day, so if I miss you, don’t forget to check Phil’s messages.”

“Okay, I’ll do that,” James murmurs. “Love you.”

“Love you, too, James.” He can hear the smile in his father’s voice.

James holds the phone out towards Phil, the motion ingrained by repetition.

“Love you, Phil!” Dad’s voice echoes tinnily over the line.

“Love you!” she screams back, entirely too loud. Dad laughs, and James pulls the phone back, ending the call quickly. He sighs, staggers over to the couch, and flops down on it.

Phil slides over, pressing close to him. “Well, that was fucked timing, wasn’t it? I don’t know why Dad didn’t call you on it – you sounded horrible and your lies were the shittiest I’ve heard in a while.”

James nudges her with an elbow. “I _am_ tired, Phil. I don’t know how, but I’m tired.” He’d slept earlier, technically. Of course, maybe dreaming itself was an exhausting process, but somehow that didn’t make sense to James. It shouldn’t be any more tiring than thinking.

Phil shoves him, knocking him half over and out of his thoughts. “So, tell me. What happened?”

James tries to gather his thoughts and entirely fails. “I met her,” he says, thinking hard. How to explain it all, and not give away too much. He has the feeling that Ariadne wouldn’t be happy if he gave away any of her secrets – even to Phil.

“You little shit,” she says, and leans forward to look into his eyes. “Of course you _met_ her. What happened? Did you learn anything? Or did she throw you out on the street? You were gone for hours; she must have said something.”

Phil’s hand darts out and seizes James’. He jumps, startled.

“Come on, Jay Jay, tell me. I’m dying here.”

The childhood nickname makes James flush and pull back. “Phil, really…”

She huffs and sits back. “Tell me, then! I’m giving you food and lodging and… and I’m spending all my time talking to you when I could be out with my friends. I need compensation. Come on,” she wheedles.

Unwillingly, a smile comes to James’ face. He can’t help it. Phil is so ridiculous that she can send him into a fit of laughter. And he knows she’s desperate to know; James had called her right after he’d first spoken to Ariadne and whispered that he had to come to London, he had to come _right now_ , because he needed to find out about Dad. She’d been the one to persuade him to listen to sense and wait until spring break.

“Okay, I’m sorry, but it’s hard to explain.” James takes a deep breath, and thinks. “She didn’t tell me much about the dreaming – I mean, not about how it works or the technical stuff. But, she did show it to me.”

Phil sits up very straight. “What? How could she show you?”

“She took me into a dream,” James says, and chills rise on his body. Even now, an hour afterwards, he feels a bit unsteady, as if the shaking he woke up with it is on the edge of his senses, threatening to return. It’s almost thrilling. “I shared a dream with her!”

It’s fantastic, yet true. James laughs at the thought. Phil leans over, pulling at James’ hand and forcing him close.

“James. James, she took you into a dream? Are you all right?”

“Of course!” James says, still laughing. “I’m great, really. I just can’t believe this is true. And—“

He cuts himself off sharply and catches his breath. Phil reaches out and jerks his chin up, sharp as usual.

“And what?” she asks, eyes narrowed.

James swallows. He hadn’t been going to tell Phil. He was going to keep it a secret and then tell her and Dad when he’d thought it through – once going back and changing his mind wasn’t an option. But Phil’s brown eyes are intense and dark, and he can’t look away. Just the thought of lying to her hurts inside. And besides, he knows he won’t get away with it.

“She offered me a job,” he whispers, because Phil is so close. “She wants me to work with her.”

“What?” Phil’s eyes fly wide and she gapes at him. “James, you’re just nineteen. You’re still in college—“

 _Damn it_. He hates it when she and Dad remind him of how young he is. Do they think he doesn’t know his age? He jerks back, a hot flare of anger flashing through him. “I _know_ ,” he grinds out. “I told her yes. I said I’d work with her.”

“James,” Phil sighs, her voice dismayed and her gaze pitying. She’s forgotten to curse, he notices. He wishes that she’d just say _fuck_ , or even _shit_. He’d know then that she wasn’t aching for him inside, so sad and afraid of his stupidity that she’s lost her words.

James pushes up from the couch and hears Phil sigh. “Come on, we’ll talk about this,” she says, her tone quiet and edging on pleading.

James shrugs. “Yeah, maybe. Later.” He walks away, towards the only other room in her apartment – the one with the big window he can watch the street from. At the last moment, he turns back, hand on the doorjamb. Phil is chewing her lip, frowning at him. She hastily tries to rearrange her face, blinking quickly.

“I’ve thought about this, you know. I really have considered this decision, and not just leapt in blindfolded. I’ve known for years, since I was little; if anyone ever gave me a way to learn about dreaming, a way to _dream_ , I’d say yes. And they have, Phil; she has.”

James can’t help the tiny smile that creeps onto his face and the thrill that dances through his heart. He turns away and toward the wide window.

-

“Wake up, stupid.”

James murmurs. Why does his neck hurt, and why is his cheek so cold? “Don’t let Dad hear you call me that,” he says, and Phil snorts.

“With about three thousand miles between us, give or take, I’m not worried about Dad hearing anything,” she says. James frowns. Why so far? Aren’t they on the way home, and he’s fallen asleep in the car? That’s what it feels like. Or rather, it doesn’t; there’s no purr of the engine or sway of the car moving.

James forces his eyes open, blinking against the light from the lamp behind Phil. Ow. His neck is cricked and it twinges wildly as he straightens it and groans, stretching it in a circle. Phil pulls him up straight, and James opens his eyes wider, looking out towards the darkness to let them adjust.

There is a street out there, but he isn’t in a car. It looks like he’s a few stories up, and is looking down a shadowed, rain-splashed street, lit by a single orange streetlight. Ah, London.

He’s perched on a window sill, knees drawn up to his chest. Carefully, he stretches them out. 

It’s the same day, too; this morning he went to see Ariadne, and this afternoon he went into the dreaming for the first time. It seems like ages ago, but James knows that he can’t have slept through the night and into the next evening.

Phil slides an arm around him and pulls one last time, a yank so strong that it sends them both upright and stumbling. James leans heavily on his sister.

She presses close. “You’re an idiot,” she whispers, pulling him across the floor. James blinks and forces himself steady, carefully walking along with her. Within a moment she is shoving him away, James feels something hit the back of his legs, and in one adrenaline-packed flail he falls onto a very soft mattress.

Now fully awake, he shoves up to his elbows and glares at Phil. She grins unrepentantly and opens her mouth. Then she snaps it closed, a scowl passing across her face. “I worry about you, little brother,” she says.

“You’re two years older than me, Phil,” he replies. “It’s not that big of an age difference.”

“I know,” she sighs, and settles next to him on the bed with a thump. “I just… I couldn’t stand it if you got hurt because of this woman. And besides, I can’t come running to save you anymore.”

James smiles, remembering how she’d fought for him when they were little, until there wasn’t a single one of the other children who would go near that quiet little boy, for fear of his big sister’s wrath. She’s still trying to protect him. But she’s right; she can’t follow him into dreams. This is something that he’ll have to do himself.

Phil’s shoulders are slumped and her face weary. James leans over and enfolds her in a hug, pulling her tight against him. “I know,” he says. “I promise I’ll be careful.” The words feel hollow, but they’re the best he has.

Her hands come up and press into his back. She turns her face inwards, towards his neck, and laughs wetly. “You little shit, you’re making me cry.”

James laughs. Phil’s fingers dig into his side and he jumps, ticklish. Sensing the weakness, she tickles him deliberately. He clutches her to him and holds out, refusing to let go. She tries harder, fingers moving nimbly, and James fidgets, it being all he can do to resist letting go of her.

Phil laughs, the wetness of her tears giving way before the loud sound, and James laughs in return, glad to have his sister mostly back to normal.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she whispers in his ear between laughs, and finally James gives in, squirming and pulling away, breathless. Phil shoves him down and tickles harder, and soon they’ve both forgotten, for a moment, everything that made them cry in the first place.

-

“James,” Ariadne says as she picks up, and he jumps on the other end of the line.

“How did you know?” he asks. Across the apartment, Phil mouths a question at him, but he ignores her.

“No one else has this number.” Her voice is short and tense. James’ fingers curl into his flannel pants in response. “We should meet today, but not in my room. The same café as last time.”

“Oh, okay. I’m know you said you’d call, but it’s almost eleven, and I hadn’t heard anything…” James’ heart is pounding. This is the beginning. “When do you want to meet?”

“Now,” she says, “or as soon as possible. But next time, James?” She pauses.

“Yeah?”

“Wait for my call.”

“I’ll be right there,” he says, but she’s already hung up. He ends the call with trembling fingers.

“You’re going, then?” Phil asks. She’s leaning against the counter, a mug with tea steaming behind her. James still hasn’t got a taste for the drink.

James scowls at her. “Of course I am. And you have class soon, so don’t complain.”

Phil’s face wavers, and then settles into a twisted scowl. She sticks her tongue out at him. “Fine. But be careful. I want to hear everything when you get back.”

He smiles at her, grin powered by excitement and glee. “Course!” he says, and runs off to get dressed.

-

The café is crowded, with patrons clustered around the tables, sipping small drinks and hunched over their laptops. James finds Ariadne in the corner, her long hair twisted up, keeping an entire table to herself by means of a wicked glare. He threads his way through the tables to her, barely glancing at those he pushes past.

There’s an empty cup near her hand and a slim manila folder in front of her. She glances up as James approaches and shoves the second chair out from under the table with her foot. James sinks into it.

“You wanted to see me…” James trails off as he realizes that this location is probably too public – Ariadne hadn’t wanted to talk about the dreaming here before, so why should she now? “I’m not sure why we’re here, honestly.”

Ariadne pushes the folder towards him. “Research,” she says.

James reaches out quickly and wraps his fingers around the edges of the folder. He feels the papers inside bend.

“No one pays attention to us here – we’re too obvious to be suspicious,” Ariadne explains. “I won’t give you details of the job, but I’ll tell you enough to get started. It’s always a good idea to plan a job in several places; you never know which one might be compromised.”

James nods. “What can you tell me?” He leans closer, over the table, then asks, “Should I get some coffee? You know, to seem less suspicious?”

“You don’t have to,” she says. “We’re just family friends, meeting for lunch. It would be less suspicious if you’d sit back a bit, though.”

James straightens hurriedly, flushing. He’s no good at this. Ariadne seems irritated. Is it with him, because he’d called instead of waiting to hear from her? Or is it something else? He doesn’t know her nearly well enough to figure out, so he turns his attention to the papers instead. He pulls them out of the folder carefully, to reveal just the top. There is text, but no pictures. Feeling a bit reassured, he pulls them out fully.

  


  


He skims the text quickly and then looks up at Ariadne. Her chin rests on her hands as she regards him.

“Don’t I need to know a bit more?” he asks. “I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to be doing. You said yesterday that you’ve been working on this project for a long time.” He doesn’t quite ask the last question for fear of prying. 

“That’s because the rest of my research is sensitive. It’s best that such information doesn’t come to a café with me. And yes, I have been working on this for a long time. But you’ll be constructing the dream - at least, most of it - and I need you to form your own opinions about the mark. If I tell you everything, you’ll just end up creating what I want, not what is best for the job.”

And why wouldn’t Ariadne’s ideas be best? She has far more experience. 

“But you’ve been doing this for year. And aren’t you an architecture professor? Shouldn’t building dreams…” He pauses, unsure as to how he should frame the question. “Isn’t this your area of expertise?”

“Sometimes,” she says, “the dreaming can affect you, change you. I’ve been dreaming for too many years, and I’ve seen too many things, to construct a complex dream anymore. It’s... unfortunate, but true. You see, James, without you, I’ll never be able to finish this job. It was perfect timing for you to call.”

She reaches down and lifts her purse into her lap. It opens with a snap and she reaches inside, pulling out a slim cell phone and sliding it across the table.

“We’ll be dreaming today. Later. I want you to read through the folder first and come up with some ideas: What do our mark’s interests say about him? What can you learn about him that I may have missed? The goal of this dream is to build a labyrinth that the mark can feel relaxed in. It has to be somewhere that he’ll be comfortable hiding his secrets. Leave the café to look it over, and call me in an hour. Use this phone; it can’t be traced.”

“I can’t…” James hesitates, then carefully reaches for the phone. He tucks it into the pocket of his jeans, trying to seem casual. “I need to know more. I’ve never done this before, and I don’t even know what I’m looking for. I’ve never made anything like a _labyrinth_.”

“You will. You’ll learn,” she says. “For now, just take a look. We’ll talk in an hour; wait, two hours.” She glances at her watch. “My class will be finished by then, and you’ll have plenty of time to think. Besides, there’s something else you need to do.” James leans forward. “You need a totem – do you remember mine from the dream?”

“Yeah,” James says. Of course he remembers her totem – the rook that defied gravity. “But I have one already, don’t I? I made one.”

She is already shaking her head. “I need you to create you _own_ totem. What you made in that dream was merely a replica of mine. Your totem can’t be the same as any other dreamer’s totem. You have to find something small and recognizable that you can carry with you into dreams, no matter how the dream changes around you. It has to show when you’re dreaming and when you’re awake. Find something that can tell you that.” She pauses, perhaps sensing how overwhelmed James is. “Your totem should be metal, small, and special to you. And don’t forget to think about the mark. When you call, we’ll talk about what you’ve discovered, and where to meet.”

“Of course,” James says. “Thank you. I…I can do all that.”

She eyes him skeptically, so James presses his palms down onto the folder and forces himself to nod, to stop babbling.

“I’ll do my best,” he says, heart sinking. He’ll simply have to prove Ariadne’s faith in him true. Is he supposed to design a dream in these two hours? He doesn’t even know how to begin. And what else does she need to tell him, what else has she hinted at? The excitement curdles in James, leaving him exhausted and taut with nervousness. “But please tell me one thing.”

Ariadne nods and waits. 

“You said the dreaming affected you. What happened? How did it stop you from dreaming? I don’t mean to pry, but the dream you made yesterday seemed perfect.” James has to force the words out. _Why do you need me_ , remains silent.

She blinks slowly, casting her gaze down. “I’m glad you have such a high opinion of me, but yesterday’s dream was far from perfect.” She glances at her watch. “I have to go. I’ll do my best to answer your questions later.”

“Okay,” James says. “I’ll call soon.”

Ariadne stands quickly, shoving the chair back with a shriek. She pulls her coat over her shoulders and walks away without looking back. James pulls the folder close and stands, steps away from the table.

Then he stops and sits back down. As long as he’s quiet, no one will notice what he’s reading. Besides, he already has a table to himself. Where else in London will he find that?

James sighs, runs his fingers through his hair, and pulls the papers out.

-

Once he starts, James can’t read fast enough. The words on these pages are a puzzle, and if James can only fit the pieces together correctly, he knows he’ll discover what’s so special about the mark.

The information Ariadne gave him is scant about the man’s personal details – there is no name, no date of birth, no address – but very thorough about his tastes and habits.

The papers – and there are eight of them, which James knows because he counts them several times, disbelieving – begin with the mark’s daily routine. They list the shops he visits, the coffee he buys, the identical packed lunch he purchases from the café every day, and the electronic records from the lock on his front door of his building. His internet history is included: scant, listing mostly sites that James doesn’t recognize, web addresses that appear to be created from seemingly random numbers and letters. He scans the words over and over, but fails to discover anything. There are patterns here, James is sure, but he is unable to find them.

Then, at the very end, are tucked the photographs. They are devoid of life – empty shots of a very small apartment with little decoration. James leans close to look at the pictures. The mark’s home.

It is a small place. The furniture is cut from simple lines, and the rooms seem filled with warm neutrals of brown and gray. On the walls hang several paintings (or reproductions, more likely); they are distorted, violent pieces that James recognizes from his art history courses. Lucien Freud, Francis Bacon: post-war modernism.

James leans back, stretching his neck and thinking.

All too easily, he can recall these painters and their works; they dealt with repressed sexuality, the expression of emotions through repulsion, and abstracted violence. They were dark, conflicted, and rife with secrets. Their art is appalling and fascinating, all at once. This man, with his quiet apartment and screaming paintings, is a bit of a paradox.

James leans back, looking away from the pages and thinking for a moment. He’d felt so hopeless when he’d begun. He hadn’t thought he’d be able to learn anything concrete about the mark. Yet here he is, analyzing the man from afar.

What does he know, based on the photographs? He considers – the mark is neat and cares about organization. Whatever led him to being targeted by Ariadne hadn’t been carelessness. If his choice of art reflects his own personality (and it usually does), the mark likely holds others in contempt, hates the way they hide their emotions and desires behind a façade. He might be a loner, unused to working with others. This might come in useful while working for the government, but James isn’t willing to go that far.

The mark might be gay. _Yeah_ , James thinks, _that might be true._ Bacon was known for his paintings of violent sexuality and portraits of his lover, and it would only be logical to assume that the man who hates others for repressing their desires would be hiding something from himself as well. James wonders if the man knows that he’s gay, or if he’s blind to even that.

He snorts at himself. He doesn’t know if that’s true – any of it. He’s practically making it up. Yet as James thinks about the images in the folder, of the words that describe the mark’s daily routine – never varying, never extravagant – he can’t help but think that he’s right.

What about the labyrinth? James knows what the words mean (at least, he thinks he does), but isn’t sure what Ariadne wants when she says, ‘labyrinth’. He turns the papers face down on the table and pulls his phone out, searching ‘labyrinth’ on Google. He scrolls past the listings about a movie from the 1980s and a bookshop by the same name, and finds the Wikipedia entry. 

At the end of the second paragraph, he finds his answer: “ _maze_ refers to a complex branching (multicursal) puzzle with choices of path and direction; while a single-path (unicursal) _labyrinth_ has only a single, non-branching path, which leads to the center”.  1

So Ariadne wants him to build a dream that isn’t difficult to navigate. She wants something that the mark would feel comfortable dreaming about. And she had mentioned secrets.

James sighs and shoves his phone away. He has no idea what to do. All he can think of, based on the research he has, is that the mark would like something clean in his dreams. Something minimalist and architectural. He would like interlocking rooms and halls - somewhere with places that can hold the secrets and darkness within him. 

_Well, that’s sorted_ , James thinks sarcastically. And now he feels completely maudlin. He can’t take this back to Ariadne, but his brain feels stuck in place.

He still has to figure out his totem. How can he find something small, metal, and special enough that he will carry it with him into dreams? All he can think about, when he tries, is Ariadne’s rook.

He growls under his breath and buries his face in his hands. Hopeless. 

-

James lifts his cup of tea to his lips from habit, then realizes it’s empty. Grimacing, he puts it down a little too hard. The clatter makes him jump.

“Ah.”

The voice comes from above James, and he glances up to see an unfamiliar man standing very close to his table, staring down at him.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” the man says. “I was just wondering if there’s room at your table? There’s no seats anywhere else.”

James blinks and glances around quickly. “Yeah,” he says. “Of course. I’m sorry about that, I was just thinking and didn’t realize what my hand was doing.” He smiles and shifts his cup closer to him.

The man settles easily into the other seat, placing his own cup and saucer – filled to brimming – in front of him. The steaming tea sloshes precariously, but somehow doesn’t spill.

The man smiles at James abstractedly and lets the papers in his arms slip to the table. He’s not as young as James first thought, and his hairline is creeping back slightly from his forehead. When he smiles, deep lines etch themselves around his eyes.

James opens his mouth, hesitates, and then asks, “I’m sorry, but… you’re American, aren’t you?” He’s been around English accents just long enough that they’re starting to seem familiar, so it had taken him a moment to realize that this man’s voice isn’t familiar because it’s British, but rather the opposite.

“I didn’t mean to intrude…” he says, when the man simply looks at James blankly for a moment.

Then the man leans forward and smiles, sharp-edged and surprising. “Oh, no, I’m sorry! I just hadn’t expected the question. You asked if I’m American? I am, yes. I suppose you are, too, by the accent. What brings you to London?”

The man’s words are quick, fired off like he’d memorized them before he’d sat down. James shakes the thought from his head and nods.

“Yeah,” he says, raising a hand halfway. “American, here. I’m studying Art History and visiting the British Museum for my thesis. Staying with my sister.” James almost stumbles as he lies because he’s terrible at it, but manages to force the words out in the end. It’s a shame that they sound so rushed.

“Really?” The man’s hand lingers over his papers as if he wants to pick them up, but he keeps his attention on James. “I’ve studied art history myself, though not in a long time. What is your thesis on?”

James’ mind freezes for a second, and he stalls. “Oh, you know,” he begins, and then it hits him. “The Elgin Marbles. And their impact on the cultures of both Greece and England in modern times.” He forces a smile.

“Ah,” the man says. “I’m more of a modern art person, myself. I hope your research is going well.”

“Yes,” James says, hoping the conversation ends soon. “Very well.”

The man lifts his work and James holds back a sigh of relief. He doesn’t think he would have been able to lie for much longer.

“I’m here on business,” the man says, startling James and causing him to curse silently. “But I think that if I had the chance to go back to college and redo my thesis, I’d take it in an instant.”

James raises his brows. Really? This man would _choose_ to go back to college and write immense papers? James can’t say he understands that, so he merely nods.

“But I suppose,” the man continues, “that we all wish we could go back to being young, sometimes.”

“Yeah,” James says, looking down into his empty cup. He knows the feeling. Right now, he’d love to be a child again and have Dad figure out these problems. (It would make sense, really. Dad is the practiced dreamer, by all accounts. So why isn’t he here, designing Ariadne’s labyrinth?) He wants to be home, not in some café in the middle of London talking with a complete stranger.

The man’s gaze lingers over James’ face, and James meets it, unsettled by its intensity. His lips twist into a half smile and he nods at James, dropping the conversation and settling back into his seat. He lifts his work once more; it spreads out before him, hiding his face, and James forces his own gaze away.

He lifts his cup again – it’s still empty. _Damn._

He looks up and waves to the waitress, gesturing mutely for another cup of tea. Grimacing, she turns away.

Three cups of tea later – which really isn’t what he’s been craving, but is at least hot and distracting – James finally has a glimmer of a thought.

He’s been thinking about his childhood, and found something like the answer there. As silly as it sounds, he’s always loved hourglasses. He thinks that the infatuation came from that time when he was little, watching Harry Potter on TV, and watched Hermione pull out her Time Turner, spin it backwards, and fall through time.

He feels like he’s in his own children’s story now, to be honest. The dreaming is fantastical, everything that he’s ever, well, _dreamed_ of, and having it finally within reach is something so huge that he finds it difficult to think about sometimes.

But an hourglass isn’t exactly something he carries around with him. Where can he find one? Maybe… an antiques store? A bookstore? He can’t be sure, but it’s the only concrete thought he has; he has to try to find one.

He stands, leaving his cup on the table. The man glances up from behind his papers, and James nods to him.

“Bye,” he says.

The man nods back. “Nice meeting you,” he replies.

-

“Hello, James,” she says. “Meet me in my classroom. Do you remember the way?”

“Yeah,” James says, fingers clenching around the hourglass in his pocket, and ends the call.

-

The sun is lost behind clouds, and the light in Ariadne’s classroom is dull.

James wonders how she can possibly enter the dreaming here, when anyone could walk in and find her vulnerable. Admittedly, the school had been nearly empty as he’d walked through the halls, but still. Carefully, he picks his way down the stairs once more, lips pursed.

When he steps onto the floor in the center of the room, he lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. He looks up and sees that Ariadne has already laid out everything they will need to go into the dreaming – the PASIV sits on a table between two chairs and tubing spirals out from it, ready for use.

James pulls the folder out from under his arm and lays it down next to the machine. “I’ve looked through everything,” he says. He wants to tell her about the mark, the small ideas he has for a labyrinth, and his totem, but he’s suddenly unsure. Perhaps he’s done this wrong? Thought about the wrong things or found the wrong kind of totem?

Ariadne glances up from where she’s crouched by the machine. “Good,” she says. “You can tell me about that later. I want to know – did you find a totem?”

James reaches into his pocket and Ariadne’s gaze follows the movement. Self consciously, he fingers the small hourglass that he found in a bookstore that afternoon. He’s not sure what it will do in the dream, but supposes that he’ll find out soon enough.

“Yeah,” he says. “I have one.”

Ariadne’s nod is sharp and she pushes up to standing, hands on her hips and knees audibly cracking. “Let’s test it, then. Take a seat,” she says, and gestures towards one of the chairs, smiling. Carefully, James settles into it and picks up the line of tubing. Ariadne swoops over. “Allow me,” she mutters, and slips the needle into his vein.

James twitches, but only afterwards, when she has already moved away. She settles into her own chair, legs crossed at the ankles, and turns to him, smile lurking in the corners of her eyes. 

“So,” she says, “let’s see what you can do.”

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

James blinks. The ceiling of the classroom is crowded with shadows and what he presumes to be dust; it’s far enough away and his eyes are fuzzy, so he can’t be sure. He rolls his head to the side and looks to the classroom door, watching a shadow move past as if someone has just walked by. It occurs to James that Ariadne’s class must be starting soon. 

He sits up, shifts his arm without thinking, then pauses, heart pounding. All he can imagine is the needle digging into his flesh, pressing against the bone. Carefully he reaches over and pulls the needle out, sighing as it comes free of his skin.

Next to him, his phone is vibrating. James picks it up, but the vibrations stop before he can hit the green button, and he sees Phil’s name shine under the Missed Calls banner. He sighs; she’s going to be so pissed with him.

Ariadne is awake as well, and much more at ease. She runs her fingers through her long hair, pushing it back over her shoulder. She swings her legs to the side of her chair and sits up straight, arching her back and rolling her neck.

“Are you happy with your totem?” she asks.

James opens his mouth to answer, then pauses. Hasn’t he told her, already? He could have sworn that they’d talked about that in the dream. But it’s fuzzy, already disappearing behind a haze. He can’t remember the landscape of the dream, or what they did there. He has only the vaguest impression of dreaming at all.

He frowns and glances down at his phone, still in his hand with Phil’s name sketched across it in bold letters.

With a flick of his finger, he calls up the contact list. Not thinking, but simply acting on instinct. A long list of names pops up: _Adrienne, Adam B, Adam T, Bart, Charlie, Emily_ , and so on, and on.

Disbelieving, James scrolls through the list. Everyone he’s ever met is on there, though he’s never once had their numbers in his phone. And in that instant, he knows that if he presses the call button, any one of them might pick up.

Something is wrong.

James looks up to Ariadne and smiles. It’s fake, and a terrible one, but it will have to do for the moment. “Oh, yeah. It worked well. Look, I wanted to tell you about the mark; let me just find my notes,” he says, and stands. He walks to the table, pretending to look through the papers there, and reaches into his pocket.

With trembling fingers, he pulls the hourglass out of his pocket. It lays in his palm, tipped sideways and useless, and yet as he watches, the sands drift through the middle, flowing sideways against time. He jerks bodily and shoves the totem away, rounding on Ariadne.

“You tricked me!” His heart is pounding, thudding through his chest and out into his fingers and he feels charged. Is this a lesson of some kind? A test? He isn’t sure he can take much more of this. 

“Yes, I did,” she says.

The dream has changed. They are no longer in her classroom in the center of London. The ceiling ends above their heads as if a great creature has taken a bite from the building and left only the piece that they’re standing on intact. Beyond that is a desert, vast and empty. 

The sands are white and gold, and the horizon shimmers. The sky is open and barely blue, bleached of color. 

“You asked me why I couldn’t design my own dreams,” she says, stepping towards James. There is a harshness in her tone that hadn’t been there before. “This is why. The desert chases me. It comes to every dream I create. If I were to design the mark’s dream, it would creep in and destroy the job. And I only have one chance to get this right.”

James gapes past her. “What happened?” he whispers. What could possibly cause this kind of thing to follow Ariadne? “Why--”

“I was betrayed,” she snaps. “Three years ago, just like this.”

And there is a gun in her hand. James stumbles back away. Ariadne does not twitch. She holds steady, the muzzle pointed at his head. James forces himself to be still and look past the gun, look into her eyes, but his gaze keeps drifting back to its black muzzle nonetheless.

She is going to kill him. He’s going to die, or at least, his mind is going to die, and then he’ll be in a coma for the rest of his life or something and his father will never know what happened but James will know, does know, in this very last instant how foolish he is, how _stupid_ , and he wishes that he’d known before now, because he doesn’t want to die.

“This is one of the consequences of dreaming,” she says, though James barely hears her.

She pulls the trigger, and James falls.

 

 

 

 

-

He scrambles back, up the seat of the chair, needle pulling at the skin of his arm. Panting, he rips the metal out and throws himself off the chair, backing away from Ariadne where she is sitting up, eerily similar to that moment in the dream.

James’ memory is so clear. It had _all_ been a dream.

He opens his mouth to shout, but anger chokes his voice in his chest and so Ariadne speaks first.

“That was a practical demonstration,” she says, “of two aspects of the dreaming. First, you’ve tested your totem and found that it works – you will now be able to tell whenever you are in the dreaming. Second, I’ve just shown you how to leave the dreaming before a dream times out. You must either fall from a great height, or die. This is called a ‘kick’. I hope I answered your questions.”

She stands. James’ hand is in his pocket, clenched around his totem. He can feel the stillness of the sands in the hourglass. He is awake, truly awake.

Though he knows this, it’s hard to let her words sink in.

“I’m sorry I frightened you, but it had to be done. The next death will come easier.” Ariadne smiles softly at him, eyes kind, but James can’t help but think of the dark emptiness of the barrel of that gun, the vastness of the open sands behind her. His stomach turns.

“Please, James,” she says. “Come. Show me what you’ve learned. Now that we’ve taken care of the dream, we can get down to business.”

James’ jaw finally begins to work. “That was horrible,” he croaks.

She nods. “Yes, it is. My first death was much worse. It does get easier, I promise. Of course, I could have thrown you out the window, but I see how you walk down the stairs.” Her hand gestures towards the sweeping height of the steps. “I thought you might prefer a nice clean shot.”

James can’t imagine falling. Even trying to conjure that sensation is enough to send chills up his arms and spots dancing before his eyes. “I would _prefer_ ,” he bites out, “to stay alive.”

“You may,” Ariadne says slowly, drawing herself up and narrowing her eyes at James. “But that is a luxury we do not have. Death is a reality in the world of dreaming – you of all people should know that.”

James freezes. “What? Why should I know that?”

Ariadne tosses her head and looks away, down at the folder that James brought. It holds nothing but the files she gave him – no notes, no highlighted sections. Without James, she’ll have nothing new.

“Death,” she says, “is a part of life, especially dreams. If you can’t reconcile yourself to that, if you can’t _bear_ it, then leave. You are no use to me otherwise.” She looks up at him from underneath her hair, a sharp gaze that catalogues James and finds him wanting.

He turns, and with a shaking hand, reaches out to pull himself up the stairs.

-

James’ hand clutches the hourglass tight under his pillow. Its sands are still, unmoving, and he knows that he’s awake. It’s a horrible feeling, not knowing what’s real, and it’s made him too tense to fall asleep.

He’s afraid he’ll dream.

There is a creak outside the door and a jangle – keys pulling out of the lock. James tries to relax, pull the blanket tighter around his neck.

“Shit, shit, shit,” comes the mutter from the next room.

Despite himself, James smiles, then muffles the expression in the pillow. Phil is home, finally. She’s so noisy, always moving and talking, always thinking. He can’t imagine what it’s like to be Phil – it would drive him crazy. James is such a quiet person.

The bedroom door opens and light slides in. With long practice, James keeps his face relaxed and pretends to sleep. He listens to Phil pad into the room and walk toward the bed. She pauses near James, and he listens to her breathe. She says nothing, and James knows that she’s watching him. What is she thinking? It’s so hard to stay still and do nothing while she’s so close. 

Soon he feels Phil move away. He listens to the rustle of her clothes as she changes, and squeezes his eyes tight. Please, just let her climb into bed and go to sleep. He wants to sleep. Maybe, if she’s near him, the heat of her back against his, he’ll dream of nothing but darkness.

He wants that darkness and forgetfulness, and he doesn’t want to have to worry about explaining to Phil. How can he, now that all his hopes have been dashed?

James is so focused on himself and his worries that he doesn’t realize Phil is finished changing until he feels the bed dip on the other side and the blankets tugging tight around him. He lets himself pull them close, and hears Phil curse behind him.

She yanks on the sheets, but James keeps pretending to be asleep, and turns further away from her. Her cursing stays at a dull murmur, but James knows how irritated she is – Phil hates sleeping with him. She’d only agreed because it was supposed to be a week-long thing.

He wonders if she’s regretting it already. Finally, James lets the blankets go and Phil pulls them half off him, wrapping herself up. She sighs, and settles down, punching the pillow with a dull whump.

Silence falls.

But James still doesn’t sleep.

-

His phone flares to light, and James squints into the glow. It’s the middle of the night, and he’s very much aware that he may be making a terrible decision. He presses Call.

The phone rings three times before Dad picks up.

“James!” he exclaims. “I’m so glad you called – I guess you missed my call earlier. But… it must be two in the morning there. Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” James says, well aware that his voice is too quiet, too sad. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d call. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Dad says. “Are you sure you’re all right? If anything’s happened—“

“No, no. Really, I’m fine. But…” He pauses, trying to think of how to talk about the abandoned feeling in his chest, how lost and betrayed he is, without actually telling Dad about the dreaming. He’ll wait, to tell that truth. Save it for a time when he doesn’t feel so on edge. “It’s lonely here in London. Phil and I are doing things, but I still feel like… oh, I’m sorry, I don’t know.” Tightness grows in the back of his throat and James levers himself off the couch, wedges the phone between his shoulder and ear, goes in search of a clean glass he can use for water. He can’t cry now, can’t even come close – not with Dad on the phone.

“Being in a city where no one knows you can be lonely, can’t it?” Dad says.

“Yeah,” James whispers, filling the mug he’s found slowly and quietly with water from the kitchen sink.

“I told you,” Dad says, and, _Oh, that’s familiar_ , James thinks. An annoyed spark flares in the center of his chest and he purses his lips. “Cities are dangerous places: you don’t know anyone in them, and they hold their secrets very close – especially London.”

“It’s not that, Dad,” James says, annoyance sweeping away his loneliness and leaving only gratitude that Dad is far away, so James can make faces into the air. “London’s great. Phil has been showing me all the places she likes to go, and I’ve met a few of her friends. I’ve been having fun.”

“Yet you can’t sleep.” The silence on Dad’s end of the line is heavy. “I’m going to tell you this only once, James. No matter how much you think you know about a city, you can never know everything. London is a big place. You’re going to feel lost there no matter how hard you try, or Phil tries, to feel at home.”

James lets the silence fall still. He can’t justify that with a reply – it’s a cruel and nasty thing to say, in his opinion. If James tries, he can feel just as comfortable here in London as he would at home. Probably more so, since Dad isn’t here.

After a moment, though, he can’t bear it any more. “Yeah. Look, I’m starting to feel tired, so I should probably go.”

“Okay.” Dad is quiet. Maybe he knows that he’s said something wrong – James can only hope. “Get some rest, James. And stay safe. I love you.”

James nods. “I love you, too.” It’s true, but sometimes James’ father drives him crazy. “Talk to you soon.” He hangs up, then sighs.

He didn’t give up his secrets or tell Dad why he’s really in London. He didn’t cry. And now the loneliness in his chest is lifting, the hole filling up with a determination not to give in to what Dad says, not to give up on dreams like Dad did. He has to be stronger than his father, better.

Now he just has to find the courage to do that.

James takes one last sip of water before placing the mug down and walking to bed.

-

Four hours later, with the light just dawning over the top of London’s skyscrapers and Phil snoring softly in bed, James moves, bleary-eyed, to the other room.

He has been thinking, so long and hard that he’s afraid he’s gotten lost in his own mind. He’s thought about what Ariadne said - how she’d been betrayed, and how she’s now cursed by this wandering desert that follows her in dreams. He’s been thinking about what she’d said about her own death in dreams, and how it had been much worse. 

And he’s thinking about her scar. It’s so thin, cutting straight across her cheekbone. James doesn’t know anything about guns, really, but he’s willing to bet that that scar had come from a bullet graze; that, three years ago she’d been betrayed and shot at, and had barely escaped with her life.

It makes James’ own fear of death seem silly. 

So without thinking too much, he pulls up Ariadne’s number and hits the Call button. He has to see this through.

It rings twice.

When she picks up there is a silence, empty and dull as the ringing stops and James can sense that the line is open. Then she says, “James,” her voice warm and welcoming, and James’ worries vanish.

But not his reason. “I need to talk with you,” James says, trying to sound steady and strong. He thinks he manages quite well.

“Let’s meet in the café, then,” she says.

“No, not there.” The words spill out before James can think about them, but he knows that they’re right. “It’s too public. I need to speak with you alone, somewhere private. It’s personal.”

There is a long silence. “The dreaming is always personal,” she says, and James can’t read her tone. “I’ll send a car for you in an hour. We’ll talk then.”

-

High in the rafters, pigeons coo in a soothing burble. James cranes his head back but he can’t spot them. “What is the place?” he whispers, awed by the size of the building.

“Abandoned underground station,” she says, stepping up behind him. James can feel by the warmth of her that she is right behind him, looking up at the vaulted, glass-panelled ceiling. He turns around.

“How did you find it?” he asks.

She smiles and shifts the PASIV to her other hand. “I have contacts in the city,” she says. “And it pays to know all the spots private enough to go under and not have to worry about being seen.” Her smile tilts to the side. “We can’t be meeting in my room all the time.”

James steps back to let her pass him. “So that’s why I have the pillows?” he asks, lifting them from his sides.

Ariadne sets the PASIV onto the floor. “Yup.” She glances up at James and he shrugs, tosses the pillows onto the dusty cement. “Today I want to work on creating our labyrinth. But first, you had something that you wanted to ask me? Something you wanted to say?” She waits for him to speak. 

James takes a deep breath. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. I never should have pried into your business. It’s just that this is all so new to me, and what you did was...” He doesn’t wanted to say _cruel_ , but can’t think of a better word, so he stops there and shoves his hands into his pockets. “I want to help out however I can. And I’m sorry for running out.”

Ariadne smiles, standing. “Thank you, James, I really appreciate that. I know that you didn’t mean to pry and... I’m sorry as well. I think I should have explained things better. Truthfully, I ran out on Dom - I mean, your father - after our first dream. So you did far better than I.” Her gaze flicks to the PASIV. “Was that all you wanted to say?”

“Yeah, but I have one more question,” he says hurriedly as she moves to open the PASIV and pulls the pillows towards her. She stops, crouched, and looks back over her shoulder. He can tell that she wants this conversation to be over, and quickly. “Will I have to die every time we dream?”

“Unless we time out of the dream, yes.” She begins unspooling the tubing and taking out the needles. 

James yanks his hands from his pockets. He doesn’t want to die. But it doesn’t seem like he has a choice. So he pushes it out of his thoughts. He doesn’t think Ariadne would be sympathetic if he pressed her more. “Okay.”

He crouches next to her and pulls the pillows up near the PASIV. Probably should have brought sleeping bags, he considers. He’s going to hurt like hell after lying on this floor. 

“The point of a labyrinth,” Ariadne says, “is to funnel the mark’s influence on the dream. If the dream is too complex, the mark could simply hide his secret anywhere.”

“We’re looking for his secret, then? How are we going to find it?”

She quirks a smile and snaps a needle onto the end of the tubing.

“That’s your job. By creating a labyrinth, the mark will be drawn to the center, which is the most difficult place to reach. He will think - subconsciously, of course - that his secret is safe in the center. That’s where the secret will be. You, James, will design us a shortcut, a back door. You’ll get us to the center before the mark expects us. We’ll catch him off guard.”

“And what do we do once we’ve found the secret?”

Ariadne grins at him. “We destroy it.”

She holds out the needle and tubing, and James takes it from her. A smile creeps onto his face and his heart begins to pound.

-

 

 

 

 

The apartment is small and clean, with white walls and three paintings hung upon the walls. 

Exactly three. In the kitchen, over the sink, is a Freud portrait of Francis Bacon, the flesh tones raw and pulpy. In the living room, over the pristine couch, are Bacon’s _Crucifixion_ studies, with sketchy, distorted figures and brilliant red backgrounds. The last painting is hung on the wall across from the bed - a small portrait by Francis Bacon of his lover. It is bright and arresting, painted in broad strokes, and James can’t help but pause to stare.  2

Ariadne walks across the room behind him and stops by the small window on the far side of the bedroom. “Very good,” she says, peering through. “This looks exactly like the mark’s apartment.”

James smiles, relieved. This is his dream, his creation. He’s _done_ it. 

“Except for one thing.” Ariadne turns on her heel to look at him. “You must never recreate something exactly from life. Your father used to tell me that any recreation of a real place was wrong, but I’ve learned that if you change something - even just one, tiny thing - it will make the dream more stable, and less realistic.”

James frowns, glances around. All right, if she doesn’t want this to be exactly like the mark’s apartment, he can do that. He peers at the decorations, the furnishings, and the floor plan. All too obvious. Then it strikes him. 

He walks over to the window, past Ariadne, and grasps the drywall on the sides. He pushes outwards, forcing the window to grow wider. He takes a deep breath and steps back. Not enough. 

This time he pushes up. Then he leans on the sill and forces the window to grow downwards. And he walks to each side and pulls, until the window in the wall of the bedroom almost swallows the wall completely. 

Light floods in, transforming the space and lighting it up. Even the paintings appear less oppressive. 

James grins and wipes at his forehead, shoving his hair back as he pants. “Well?”

Ariadne stands back, hands behind her back as she observes his work. “Much better. I can see that you’re getting the hang of this.” 

Laughing with relief, James glances out the window to the city beyond. How did he create this? It seems like so much, and he hadn’t imagined a whole _city_ when they went under. Has this kind of creation been within his mind the whole time?

He spies people walking the streets below, and whirls. 

“Who are they?” he demands of Ariadne, feeling vaguely panicked.

Ariadne doesn’t even looks. “Projections,” she says. “Pieces of your mind that took form in the dreaming. Nothing more.”

“My mind?” He looks down at the people, tiny moving figures below. Which parts are they? “What about you? Aren’t bits of your mind mixed in, too?”

She gives James a smile and pulls something from behind her back. It takes James a moment to realizes that the small black object she holds is a gun. “No, James. The only part of my mind that comes into my dreams is the desert.”

He glances over and sees that the city shimmers in the distance, as if it’s a mirage.

“You did well with this dream,” she says, smile still in place. “Now, we try again.”

She raises the gun to eye level. “And next time, make it more complex.”

 

 

 

 

-

That evening, James sits down across from his sister and watches as she ignores him. He lets the silence drag on for a few moments, exhaustedly admiring the way her fingers dance over the screen of her phone, before clearing his throat. His heart pounds, heavy in his chest, and his wrist aches from the PASIV tubing.

“What’s wrong?”

His words fall on dead air, and Phil ignores him for a moment longer. Then, as though the very act is painful, she drags her gaze up from her phone.

“You ditch me for the day, before I even wake up, and you’re asking _what’s wrong_?” Her voice goes low, into a growl, and James winces. She’s so pissed.

“Ariadne called, and I had to—“

“You didn’t even leave a fucking note!” she shouts, and slams her hands (and her phone) onto the table. Phil takes a deep breath and sits back, visibly forcing herself to relax. “Look, I don’t give a shit what you do – really, I don’t – but I didn’t know where you were this morning or what the hell’d happened to you. You didn’t fucking pick up when I called, either. I know that this shit idea of coming to London to be with me was a lie for Dad, but you could at least spend _some_ fucking time with me!”

James winces back. “I’m sorry.” He shouldn’t have sat down, even tried to talk with Phil. He could tell that she was angry the moment he walked in, and he’s so _tired_. He should have gone to bed. “I don’t know what to say, Phil, but I am sorry. I can’t always pick up the phone, and I didn’t think you’d need a note.”

Phil’s mouth twists and James casts his gaze away.

“I’m really doing this,” he says.

Her brows rise mockingly.

“Phil, please. I want to tell you about it. About the dreams. I… I feel like I can really _create_ something in the dreaming.” James’ hands fist under the table in frustration. Why can’t she just _understand_?

“So you think,” Phil says, her drawl startling James into looking up at her, “that you can just tell me all about your fan-fucking-tastic adventures with this Ariadne bitch, and expect it to all be okay?”

“You can’t call her that,” James says steadily.

“And _why not_? She’s done nothing for me; she steals you away before the sun is up, tells you all sorts of secrets, and teaches you to act like a stranger around me.” Phil’s hand snaps out and latches onto James. Her gaze is steady on him, intense. “I’ve kept your secrets. I lied to Dad about why you were here and about all the _wonderful_ fucking things we’re supposedly doing, and here you are, treating me like nothing. You’re as bad as Dad – keeping secrets, cutting me out. Only, you know, the last time he did that I had you with me. Now I’ve got nothing.” Her silence is powerful and James feels a deep guilt writhe within him.

“I can’t tell you everything. They’re not my secrets,” he whispers. It’s the truth, if not the whole of it. He turns his hand over and grasps Phil’s wrist. She scowls half-heartedly at him and he tugs at her hand. “Don’t hate me, please. I don’t know what to do.”

James knows he won’t be able to pretend innocence and youth for much longer – at some point, even Phil will stop believing that he’s too young and foolish to know better.

But not today. After a moment, Phil’s face softens. “Fine,” she says, voice cracking. She clears her throat harshly. “But you can’t run off anymore. You don’t have to tell me every shitty detail, but you have to tell me _something_.”

“Of course.” He squeezes Phil’s hand nonetheless, and keeps his secrets close.

“Can I tell you about the dreams?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she whispers, and moves around the table to sit closer to him.

-

 

 

 

 

Ariadne’s hair brushes over his shoulder as she leans close.

“Here,” she says, crushing the mouse in his hands with a quick gesture. It hadn’t been a proper mouse, not really. Its tail had been translucent and its eyes bright red, as if it couldn’t decide whether to be real or a dream. Making something living in a dream is so much harder than simply creating a landscape. He’s been trying all morning, and it’s completely exhausting. Especially when he’s created the landscape of the dream as well.

“It’s best to practice creating non-animate objects first. That way you can master the skill of creation first and focus on the complexities of life later. Sometimes, when you try to create life in a dream, your creation turns out rather worse than you’d imagined.”

James thinks involuntarily of _Frankenstein_ , and sighs. He glances down at the sidewalk beneath his feet, then over at the corner of the next building. The projection peeking around it flinches back, and James is left with the impression of dark hair. She - and he’s sure it was a girl - reminded him of Phil.

He forces his thoughts back to Ariadne’s challenge. He can’t be worrying about projections or creations gone wrong – monsters to chase him through dreams. He lets himself briefly to wonder whether Ariadne’s desert is such a monster, then forgets the thought when she gestures to him to begin. 

He tries to think of something simple, but more interesting than a cardboard box. After a moment, he settles on a ring.

It will be gold, with a wide, polished band, and a small red stone set in the top. The setting will be slightly rough, as if it has knocked against things in the past. James closes his eyes and pictures the ring as clearly as possible, then looks down at his hands.

There it is, in the center of his palm, shining as clearly as he’d imagined. He shifts to grasp it, and the ring gains weight and substance. He slides it onto his finger.

“Very good,” Ariadne says. “The next thing I want you to try may take a bit longer to master.” 

She knots her fingers in front of her, palms pressed together, and steps back toward the brick wall of the building in this city that James has created. She pulls them apart. As she does so, it seems that the shadows stick there, growing darker and shifting on their own, and James realizes that she’s created clouds. A miniature storm shapes itself between her palms, roiling and churning. Ariadne smiles down at it, then lets it go. It begins to drift upwards into the sky.

“I want you to try and create weather,” she says. “Just a small piece, like I showed you. Once you get that, we can create bigger things.”

James nods sharply and takes a deep breath. He brings his hands together and closes his eyes. How to create a storm? Well, he imagines that it would prickle the palms of his hands with electricity; that it would press outwards, straining at his grasp as it roils and grows; and that it would slick his hands with wild rains and make it difficult for him to hold on.

He yanks his hands apart and gasps as the storm surges upwards. The winds force him back and he stumbles, watching as the cloud shifts, black and gray against the bright sky, rising higher and higher and growing larger.

“Wonderful!” Ariadne exclaims. James turns his gaze to her and finds that she’s grinning wildly. He smiles back in return.

“It is, isn’t it?” He looks up again, to see the cloud rising above the rooftops, and gets splashed in the eyes by a gust of falling rain. He laughs and rubs the moisture from his face, exhilaration and delight coursing through him. “I wish I could do things like this all the time,” he says. “I wish I could dream like this all the time.”

James isn’t thinking as he speaks, or paying much attention to anything aside from his creation, so when Ariadne seizes him by the arms, shoving him back, he gasps with surprise.

“What?” he asks, wild-eyed and heart pounding.

Ariadne’s eyes are wide and serious, and her lips are pursed. The scar on her cheek is pale and taut. “You must never, _never_ fall into the trap of wanting live in dreams.” She shakes him.

James’ brow furrows. “I didn’t mean it,” he says. “I was just happy and—“

“No! You did mean it, or you wouldn’t have said it. It’s too dangerous. I know dreamers who have trapped themselves here, in the dreaming, and left nothing but empty bodies in the real world. You can never think that again, James. Or I’ll never show you the dreaming again.”

She is serious and desperate, and anger churns within James. She should know how excited he was, how happy. Now she’s destroyed that, and is threatening to take everything else away as well. He doesn’t see how he’s earned that with a few careless words.

He pulls back, but her grip is severe. “James,” she says, staring into his eyes, “promise me.”

James shivers. He feels the air move around him and a slight dizziness sweeps over him. It’s like he’s standing at the top of an immense building, unable to get down. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

Ariadne sighs and steps back. When he releases him, she flexes her hands and wraps her arms around her. “You’re too young to die,” she says. “I won’t let it happen to you.” Her voice fades as she speaks, leaving James straining for her words. He frowns, not sure he understands. She won’t let _what_ happen? But he isn’t sure she’s speaking to him at all.

Besides, he dies every day, now. It’s starting to become commonplace. (She’d been right, the little deaths do get easier.)

“I don’t understand.”

Ariadne offers him a sad smile and steps forward. “I’m sorry, James. I don’t know if bringing you into this was a good idea.” She reaches out, and with a single sharp movement shoves him back.

James stumbles back, heel slipping over the curb – except it isn’t the edge of the sidewalk anymore, but the top of a tall building that Ariadne must have drawn up from the ground while they were speaking; and _damn her_ , this is his dream, how dare she change it – and he falls.

His arms pinwheel and his head twists just enough to see below him, to the ground many stories away, and he screams.

 

 

 

 

-

James wakes gasping for the second time. He squeezes his eyes shut as Ariadne lays her hand on his shoulder. After a moment, he forces his arm away from his eyes and pushes himself up to sitting on the cold floor of the empty loft they’re dreaming in today.

“Never do that again,” he hisses, and turns his most vicious glare on Ariadne.

She looks at him askance. “Do what?”

“Shove me off a building. Never do that again.” His jaw hurts, and forcing the words out is a supreme effort. He thinks he might be sick.

“And why not? Falling is the quickest way to exit the dreaming. You don’t even have to hit the ground to wake.” Her lips quirk into a smile.

“I _hate_ heights,” James spits. “And you knew that.” That’s the worst part, that she _knows_ how hard heights are for him. He shoves her away and stands, ripping the tubing from his arm. He winces at the sharp pain and clutches his wrist close, snarling at Ariadne over his shoulder. His heart feels like it’s galloping in his chest and nausea swoops within him. He can’t do that again. He can’t fall.

“I didn’t—“

“You knew!” James rounds on her and is mortified to find tears in his eyes. He quickly blinks them away.

Ariadne stares at him in silence, then moves to the PASIV, quickly spooling the tubing away and readying the machine for transport. Silence falls between them.

After another few moments, James finds himself steadying. He hasn’t moved. “Are you really going to keep me out of the dreaming?” _Because without you, I’ll never dream again_ , is what he doesn’t say.

Ariadne stands, lifting the PASIV with one hand. She turns to face him. “No. You promised me that you would take the dreaming seriously, and I believe you. If you can control yourself long enough to stop screaming, I don’t see why you shouldn’t be able to work this job with me.”

James sighs. Now that he’s calming down, he can see how stupid his anger was. He should apologize. He could have ruined _everything_ like that.

Ariadne steps around the pillows they brought and heads for the door, just past James. He shifts back to allow her past, but at the last moment she stops and whirls, lashing out to seize him by the chin and draw him close. All he can see is the angry flash of her eyes and the closeness of her scar.

“Don’t ever speak to me like that again,” she growls. “I am the professional here, and if that means that you need to fall off a few buildings to learn about the dreaming, then I’ll be the one to push you.” Her eyes narrow. “I’ll call you when I need you. For now, go home and think about ways to improve your labyrinth. And do try to think of something subtle.”

Her voice drips disdain. She releases James and turns away, pushing out through the doorway. James closes his eyes, fighting against the sick feeling in his stomach.

Maybe he’s done something worse than ruin everything – he’s made Ariadne hate him.

-

He goes home – to what passes for home in London. He settles onto the couch in Phil’s apartment and turns on the television, searching for something to distract him (or maybe, just maybe, inspire him), but finds nothing.

The entire world seems dull and empty; lifeless.

He laces his fingers in front of him but feels nothing between his palms.

Eventually he falls asleep, hands knotted in front of him, curled around himself on the couch cushions. He doesn’t feel the blanket Phil drapes over him when she gets home from class, or the hand she briefly rests on his head.

-

James dreams his last true dream, though he doesn’t know it.

Ariadne’s hands are upon him and her eyes are fierce. Her scars curls up around her eye and down around her neck in ways impossible in reality. She grips his arms tight and pushes him away from her. Heart pounding, he tries to shove her back.

Though he can’t see behind him, James knows that she’s pushing him towards the edge of a cliff; he can _feel_ it.

Her fingers are like a vice; James opens his mouth to cry out at the pain, but can’t force a sound out. He flails, the sunlight bright in his eyes. She is all flashing eyes and dark hair; he cannot beat her back because she is upon him like a tiger – she is devouring him whole.

She shoves; wild, he reaches out and grasps her to him tight.

His footing slips and his stomach drops out from beneath him – his body follows.

He drags her with him, and though his screams are trapped tight inside, his voice strangled, he doesn’t regret pulling her down.

James plummets into reality and wakes blearily, dream already fading.

-

The next morning, James opens his eyes in Phil’s apartment and reaches for his totem first. It slips from his pocket and into the palm of his hand, and as he rights it, the sands run downwards.

He sighs.

It has only been a few days since he began dreaming with Ariadne, but he’s beginning to find it hard to tell dreams and reality apart. He hasn’t told this to Phil, though. He scrubs at his eyes and shoves the sheets back.

Phil is in the kitchen, acting surprisingly domestic. She casts a glance over her shoulder as James walks in and snatches at slices of hot toast as they spring from the toaster.

“Butter’s in the fridge,” she says, slipping the toast onto a plate and sliding that onto the table in front of James.

“What are you—“ James begins, before he’s cut off by Phil spinning round.

“Because _I_ am a wonderful sister - unlike you, who has proven to be a spectacularly shitty brother,” she says. “I’ve noticed that you’re having a terrible time sleeping.”

“I have not,” James says because he hasn’t – he’s been sleeping just as well as usual lately, maybe better. And he refuses to think that there’s a problem just because he hasn’t been able to remember his dreams from the past few nights.

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” Phil snaps, scowling and pointing with a spatula. “We sleep in the _same goddamn bed_. I can feel you tossing and turning. I hear you moan and groan and just… generally sound like you’re in pain. And I’ve tried to wake you. If only so that I can get some fucking sleep of my own.”

She does look tired, James thinks. Her eyes are wild around the edges and there are dark circles beneath them.

“I swear,” he says. “Phil, I haven’t been—“ His phone chirps from the counter and James’ voice stops dead.

He and Phil dive for the phone at the same time and he snatches both the device and his fingers back as she slaps the spatula down.

“Damn it,” she growls. “That fucking woman is causing my lack of sleep, I swear. If you answer the phone, I’ll--“

“Hello?” James says, ignoring Phil.

“Good morning,” Ariadne says, and her voice is flat. James can’t read into it, and the uncertainty is crushing.

“Thanks for calling,” he says, straightening and walking back into the bedroom. It’s marginally quieter there. He shoves his nervousness back – he can’t afford to act like a child. “Where are we meeting today?”

“We can’t,” Ariadne says. “I have to meet with an old friend.”

“An old friend?” James can’t think. Why is she cancelling? Has she decided to work with someone else? That must be it.

“Yes, a very old friend,” she says. “His name is Yusuf, and he works in the dreaming. He’ll be supplying us with a specialized formulation of somnacin to put the mark under. Based on the reports, the mark may have some kind of militarized protection prepared in his subconscious. I’ve asked Yusuf to formulate a compound which will inhibit the mark’s ability to resist. Yusuf will be giving it to me today, and it will make the job much simpler.”

“Yeah,” James says, ridiculously relieved. His knees actually shake as he sits on the edge of the bed. “Sounds like it will. But… should we meet later, then? I know I need the practice, and I thought…” His voice trails off, unsure.

“You don’t, James,” Ariadne says, and though her voice isn’t warm, it’s marginally more enthusiastic than it had been. “You are a natural at the dreaming. You’ve improved immensely in the past few days. It’s not critical, missing a single day.”

“Okay,” James says. “That’s good to know. I just want to be ready.”

“You are,” Ariadne says. Muffled sounds of the phone shifting drift across the line. “Let _me_ get ready. I’ll call you tomorrow, James. And we’ll put the finishing details on this job.”

“I can’t wait,” he says. The line clicks, and goes dead.

James tosses the phone down onto the bed and stands. What was that about? Her reason sounds legitimate, but James can’t help but think that she wants to replace him. And he wouldn’t blame her, really. He reaches up and scrubs his hand across his face, sighing.

He walks back into the kitchen.

Phil is sitting at the small table in the center of the room, head resting on her hand, idly cutting into a fried egg with a fork. Another plate of food sits, steaming, across the table. James sits down in front of it.

“You won’t have to worry about me sleeping well tonight,” he says, and Phil raises an eyebrow at him. “I’m all yours today; you can tire me out as much as you want.”

Phil’s grin is truly unholy, and the glee with which she begins to eat is terrifying. James grins, helpless to resist, and turns to his own food.

-

“So I hear there’re some good marbles here,” Phil mutters, scrutinizing the museum map. She turns the thick paper over, unfolds it and then folds it again. James wants to snatch it from her, but knows it’ll only result in a burst of cursing that will make everyone stare. “Though I have no idea what that means.” Her words are muffled by the cigarette pinched between her lips.

“You know you can’t have that in here,” James says. “You’re lucky the guards haven’t come to haul you out like the criminal you are.”

She snatches the cigarette from her lips and sends an arch glance his way. “Fuck off,” she says, then takes a long drag. The grey tip flares bright, and grows.

James sends her a look of his own. “You should try to say something more original, dear sister,” he says before grabbing the map.

“Ah!” she cries, and reaches to snatch it back. James takes advantage of her distraction to pull the cigarette from her lips. The end sears his fingers and he hisses, shifting his grip and then backing away.

He turns on his heel and makes for the bathroom. Phil skids to a stop at the entrance and James tosses the cigarette into one of the sinks. “There,” he says, and turns back to face her. “Now they can’t throw us out.”

Phil’s anger seems to be utterly too large to be put into words, because she simply seethes in his direction, hissing, “You little _shit_ ,” at him as he steps by her and back into the entrance hall. She snaps the map open again, angrily, fingers crumpling the edges.

James offers her a mocking bow. “Lead away, my dear. To the Elgin Marbles.”

Stiff-backed, Phil strides away from him, pushing past other patrons, who turn to stare and send her dirty looks. Sighing, James follows, nodding to those he brushes past. The museum really is ridiculously crowded. The din of conversation and the heat of all these bodies is already beginning to close in on James. He doesn’t know why they can’t have chosen to do something more calming for the day. Something less stressful. But no, of course not. Phil had gotten it into her head that since James is studying art history, the British Museum was simply the _only_ place to take him. It isn’t as if he’s been avoiding the museum, he simply hasn’t found the time. And now she wants to see the Elgin Marbles. They’ll be in the most crowded room of all.

He shifts, moving through the crowd with the ease of long practice. Too many people, and too many things he would rather be doing. James wants to be _dreaming_.

Inwardly cursing, he attempts to follow his sister. It’s harder than one would think – her light brown hair, which shines so nicely in the sun, turns a dull and plain brown inside, and her dark blue jacket attracts no notice whatsoever. James scans the crowd ahead of him five times before realizing that he’s lost her. _Damn._ He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, before pausing.

He knows where she’ll be, or where she’s going. He can find the Marbles on his own, and if it takes him a while to do so, then who will question him? Phil might get angry, but James will just tell her that he got lost.

He turns to the right, pushing through the crowd once more – it’s harder, in this direction – and through a high, arched passage. The chatter of the museum begins to subside.

He steps through the room, then into the next room, not even glancing at the works of art positioned on pedestals and hanging from the walls until he can breathe once more; until he has made so many turns he doesn’t know where he is at all; and until the patrons are so few and far between that the only noise he can hear is the rustle of paper. There, he sighs, stops, and finds a bench to settle upon.

The room is small, and the walls white. Several paintings hang on the walls all around James, of various sizes. The one directly in front of him is large, dark, and strangely familiar. He’s frowning at it when a man settles on the bench next to him, forcing James to shift over.

He examines the painting. The colors are violent – deep purples, reds, and blacks, like he imagines a vivisection to look – and the lines sharp. The style is oddly familiar. He frowns and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. What does this painting remind him of? It’s just on the edge of his tongue. Something with a ‘b’, he’s sure. 3

“Art History?” The words come from beside James like the calling of a name, and his thoughts derail. He glances back at the man sitting next to him. He’s watching James, and as James meets his gaze, he smiles slightly. “Remember me?”

James sits up. “No, sorry. I think you have me confused—”

“I’m sure I don’t,” the man says, shifting towards James. “We met in the café the other day, remember? You let me share your table and told me about what you’re studying.”

James blinks. The other day; it seems so long – lifetimes – ago. “Yeah,” he says. “Now I remember.” And he does remember – vaguely. It’s the American; the businessman. “What a coincidence, seeing you here.” It’s too strange. James forces a smile and stands. “I do have to go, though. It’s been nice—“

The man cuts him off again, and James grits his teeth. “Please, don’t leave. You’re one of the only people I know here in London, and I’d like to talk to someone familiar, if only for a moment.” His voice is wistful, and James settles back down slowly.

“I don’t know what I can say,” he says. “I mean, I don’t know anything about business, or why you’re here.”

“That isn’t what I want to talk about,” the man says, adjusting his tie. A frown briefly passes over his face, accentuating the lines around his mouth and eyes. He’s older than James had first thought – old enough to be a father. Yet here he sits, so perfectly still. Like he’s accustomed to being alone.

“I know that you’re an Art History major, and I’m surprised to see you here, away from the Marbles.” James frowns and nearly asks what the man means, then remembers that he’s supposed to be studying them. Luckily, the man isn’t watching him, but the art instead. “While I have you, I thought I could… well, ask you about this painting. I’m sure you know more than I do.” His smile is engaging, yet James feels uncomfortable.

“Oh, no,” James says. “I really don’t.”

“Still,” the man says, and turns back to look at the painting. “I once heard that a painting is an expression of the soul – that by looking at an artist’s work, you can truly see what was important to that artist, what the state of their soul was. This painting is… dark.” The man nods to himself, not giving James time to respond. “I know that it is considered modern art, and was painted in the last century. It looks it, too, with its abstraction and moodiness. I think that the artist must have been depressed, or maybe caught up in a dark secret. It fits with the whole color scheme. And look there, at the reds,” he says, pointing to the bright splashes of colors that tear asymmetrically across the canvas. “I think that the artist was tortured – violent, even. I think he only knew how to express himself through hatred.” Again, he pauses. “Maybe. What do you think?”

With this, he turns to James, his face open and questioning. Immediately uncomfortable, James feels himself flush and he forces his gaze to the painting.

“I don’t know this painting; I haven’t studied it,” he says. In fact, he hasn’t really studied modern art at all. Maybe next semester, but not yet.

It hits James with a jolt, then – he won’t have a next semester. He has chosen the dreaming, and that’s it. There is nothing more for him.

His hands knot in his lap and he licks his lips; finds himself already speaking. “I think you’re right,” he says, voice dull and words unconsidered. His lips are moving on their own, speaking without him. “The artist might have been disturbed – I really think that any great artist has to be at least half-crazy in order to produce good work. And if the painting is in this museum, the artist must be great.”

His words are circling like buzzards. There is no more studying for James. No more papers to write, no more seminars to attend. There will be no more trips into New York to visit the museums, and no more late nights in the library with smuggled cups of coffee.

Only the dreams.

“I knew someone, once,” he is saying. “Who liked paintings like this one. He was a very neat man, and very intelligent. I remember that his apartment was always so clean.” Where are these lies coming from? What are these thoughts? He’s talking about the mark, sideways; it’s dangerous, and stupid, and James should stop himself.

But he can’t. He feels numb. And the man is listening so attentively.

He’s finally remembered the artist’s name: Francis Bacon.

“I think he loved these paintings because they said something about him, about the darkness inside him. They were…” The words stutter to a halt as his mind finally begins to move again. “I don’t know.”

James forces a smile to his face that feels more like a grimace. “I’m sorry, I really don’t know anything about this painting. You’ll be better off reading the tag.” He stands and shoves his hands into his pockets. “It’s been nice talking.”

The man nods. “It has. I’m glad I found you,” he says with a smile that looks genuine. “I have a feeling we’ll meet again.” He looks back to the painting and James walks away.

“Wait,” the man says, and James pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. The man reaches into his pocket and pulls out something small and white. “I was wondering. This man you were talking about. If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to him?”

 _His memories were erased; his secrets destroyed_ , James’ mind whispers to him, but of course that hasn’t happened yet. “I don’t know,” he says.

The man reaches out, holding a small white card. “Please take this,” he says. “If you ever need anything. I‘m really glad to have met you, James.”

James takes the card, smiles woodenly, and walks away. He shoves it into his pocket without looking. A moment later he pauses. How did the man know his name? He’d never said it. James turns back to look, a shiver running over his skin, but the man is gone. Vanished. 

Unnerved, he hurries away. 

Whether the man calls out to him again, James doesn’t know. He should find the Marbles, find Phil. She’ll know how to cheer him up and push back the thoughts that that man stirred up.

In James’ pocket, his phone vibrates, the sensation dancing across the tips of his fingers. He snatches it out, and his breath catches at the sight of Ariadne’s number. He presses the green button and takes the call.

“Hello?” His voice is breathless, and he clears his throat.

“We’re not meeting,” she says. “But I have a treat for you. Go to my classroom. It’s behind the podium.”

“What—“ James tries to ask, but the calls ends with a thunk and he pulls the phone back.

What’s behind the podium? But as James asks himself the question, it occurs to him that he already knows the answer, and it already makes his heart beat faster. He turns and spots a security guard.

“Excuse me,” he says. “I’m looking for the exit.”

As the woman explains the shortest route to get out, James types a message on his phone.

_have to go. call from A. be sure to take lots of pictures with the marbles for me._

He may be a coward for not calling, James thinks. But the thought of telling Phil that he needs to ditch her at the British Museum is enough to make any man flinch. He hits Send and then turns his phone off, thanking the guard and heading out as quickly as possible.

-

-

The silver case is cold against his palms, and doesn’t seem to be warming up. James isn’t sure where to take it – Phil’s apartment would be safe, but she could come back any time, and James doesn’t really have any contacts here in London.

Unless… it’s foolish to think that the man from the museum would help him, but he’s the only person James knows in the city. He can’t, though. There are too many unanswered questions there - first of which being how the man knew his name. 

He can’t; he doesn’t know the man, or anything about him. James can’t, for a second, trust that stranger.

He hugs the cold box of the PASIV close to his body and heads upwards, out the door of the classroom, and to the stairwell. The door clangs shut behind him as he pauses to think. He can go up to the roof – though it will be cold there, it will be private. He makes his way upwards, glancing around at the cobwebs gathering in the corners and the dim flickering of the lights. It doesn’t look like anyone has used the stairs for _years_.

Then, by chance, James glances over the railing. His stomach plunges sickeningly and his knees weaken. He slams his eyelids shut and grasps the railing, pressing the PASIV against his chest. After a moment, his breathing steadies and he opens his eyes.

There is something down below. The stairs don’t go on forever – they have an ending. And if no one has been using them, well, it might be just the private place James is searching for. He turns around and heads downward.

Finally, he rounds the corner of a landing and is forced to stop. The steps continue, but are blocked by a waist-high gate, vanishing into shadows beyond.

 _Authorized Personnel Only_ , reads the sign chained to the front.

Well, it’s certainly a private spot. Carefully, James glances around before swinging his legs over the gate and stepping down into the darkness.

-

The red LED screen on top of the PASIV gleams in the darkness.

5:00

Five minutes was the length of his dreams with Ariadne, and to be honest, James doesn’t think he can handle sitting on this cold, hard floor any longer. He squints at his arm in the dim light and slides the needle into the vein.

He phones vibrates.

James jumps, taken completely unaware, and yanks it out of his pocket. What else does she need to tell him? James brushes his finger over the screen without looking and picks up the call.

“Yeah?”

“James, I’m so glad I caught you. How are you doing? What are you and Phil up to today?”

The bottom drops out of James’ stomach. It’s Dad. The needle is in his arm, and _it’s Dad_.

“Oh, ah,” he fumbles, unable to think of anything at all. “I’m at school. I mean, we’re at school. Phil was showing me her school.” It’s the truth, somewhat. 

“Really?” Dad pauses. “Did Phil volunteer that trip, or did you ask for a tour?” He sounds skeptical, and James can’t blame him.

“I asked,” he says. “I wanted to see where her classes are.”

“And?”

“It’s certainly nicer than my lecture halls.”

Dad laughs, and James nearly sighs with relief. 

“Look,” he says. “Phil’s yelling. I’m glad you got me, but could you call back later? I can’t talk much now.”

There is a pause. “I don’t hear her voice,” Dad says, and James’ stomach drops out. “She must’ve mellowed out. Put her on. I have something to ask her.”

“I-- I can’t. She’s busy talking to her friends--”

“Just pull her away for a second. It’ll only take that long for me to ask her.”

“She really doesn’t want to be disturbed, I can tell--” His voice is rising and quickening. He forces himself to _shut up_.

“Is something wrong?” Dad doesn’t sound concerned - he sounds suspicious. “Why don’t you want me to talk with Phil?”

“It’s not that, really,” he pleads. “She’s just busy. Dad, ask her later. I promise she’ll be able to talk then. Or, why don’t you ask me? I can let her know and she’ll call you back.”

“I don’t believe you. I think you’re lying to me. I can hear your voice echoing, James. You’re not at Phil’s school.”

James lifts his hand and presses it against his lips, discovers that his fingers are trembling. 

“I knew that it was a bad idea to let you go to London alone,” Dad is saying. 

“What?” James yelps. “This has nothing to do with that! Phil’s busy, why don’t you believe that?”

“Because I can tell when my son’s lying to me,” Dad says. 

_No you can’t_ , James thinks hysterically. _I’ve been lying to you for months._

“I should fly out there now. Pay you and Phil a visit. Or better yet, send you a new ticket home. I won’t have you lying to me over the phone. You’ll have to do it to my face.” He sounds determined, vicious, and it makes James want to cry. 

“No!” James nearly shouts. “Please, Dad, it’s just a few days left.” He has to stay; has to finish this job with Ariadne. He can’t let Dad ruin that. “I’ll be home then. I don’t understand, I haven’t done anything, I haven’t lied--”

He’s pleading fully now, wildly trying to make up ground he isn’t even sure he lost. Dad isn’t usually like this. He’s jumping to conclusions that James knows he doesn’t have enough evidence to support. He _can’t_ know that James has been lying to him. Something is wrong. Dad just isn’t like this. 

“You’re still lying.” Dad sounds so disappointed, and it makes James _ache_ inside. “I’ll give you your days, but don’t expect to get away with this. I’ll talk to you soon.”

The line goes dead, but James holds the phone to his head for a few minutes longer. Then, shaking, he lowers it and shoves it into his pocket. 

The needle in his wrist twinges, and James grits his teeth. He reaches up with his other hand and scrubs at his eyes. The PASIV screen still reads five minutes. Everything is exactly the same as it was a couple of minutes ago, yet everything has changed. 

He should pull the needle out, put the PASIV back behind Ariadne’s podium. If he does that, he won’t have been lying to Dad. He can go back to Phil and try to enjoy the rest of his day. 

But he doesn’t do that. He looks down at the tubing once more, spiralling across the floor, dimly shadowed in the light from the stairwell above, and knows that he has to dream. He needs to create landscapes and creatures. He needs to do this one thing that he does well. He can’t give up and go back to Phil. 

He takes a deep breath; he’s never done this alone. Then he presses the button in the center and settles back, trying to push all thoughts from his mind. It doesn’t take long for the dream.

-

 

 

 

 

To come.

James is back in the British Museum, yet no one else is there. The entrance hall is empty and white. Black, empty doorways open within the pristine walls, each spaced equally from the last. The space echoes with the sound of his steps as he turns, staring blankly around him. With a movement that has become instinctual, he reaches into his pocket and draws out the hourglass.

The sands run backwards, and so James puts it away.

He steps to the nearest wall and lays his hand on it. It’s cool, as if carved from stone, and James begins walking along it. The texture of the wall doesn’t change, which he’s been informed is good. It means that the dream is stable and won’t be collapsing under him any second now. He had been worried about that, a bit.

His memories of the last few moments feel dulled. James is okay with that, and doesn’t poke at them. He knows that they must be hiding themselves from him for a reason.

This is it, then. James stops walking and stares up at the lighting flooding through the glass ceiling. His mind has created this dream on its own, without help from Ariadne.

He’s a dreamer.

His heart clenches in his chest, soaring, and a smiles breaks across his face. He bites his lip and doesn’t wake up, so he laughs. How stupid. He should have known, after all this time, all this practice, that he’s okay to dream on his own. But to _feel_ it so acutely is another thing.

Laughter. It echoes through the halls of the museum and sends the blood fleeing from James’ face. He’s not alone.

He turns away, making for one of the doorways in the walls. He doesn’t know what’s past it, but has to look. Ariadne isn’t here to shoot him, so he’ll have to find some other way to wake himself.

He hears a voice almost before he’s reached it. “James,” it whispers, and he looks inside before he can stop himself.

Dad is in there, and it isn’t a room of the British Museum. It’s the kitchen at home. Warm light floods the room and Dad is sitting at the counter, a book spread open in front of him. He picks his head up off his hand and blinks at James, obviously surprised.

“Dad,” James says, stepping into the room. “What are you doing here?”

His father tilts his head and frowns. “I’m reading. Something strange about that?” He sounds confused, and then James remembers.

This is a dream, which means that Dad isn’t here. He isn’t real.

That doesn’t stop James from wanting to hug him. He wants to be enfolded in his father’s embrace. He wants to _dream_ with Dad. He can’t, because his father’s a continent away. Because he hates James right now. The remembrance hits James hard.

“No,” he whispers. “Nothing. I was just walking by. I have to keep going, Dad. Sorry, I just--”

“Having a bad dream?” his father asks, and James freezes. Dad smiles at him. “Don’t worry, James, I know all about how you’ve been dreaming with Ariadne. It’s okay. I know why you lied.”

James stares, wide-eyed, as his father stands and walks towards him. 

“It’s okay,” Dad says again. “Really. Sometimes we see people in the dreaming - ones we love, or people we don’t know at all.” He stops directly in front of James. “It’s natural. They are projections of your mind. I’m just a part of you, James. I know everything. I understand everything.”

James backs up, away. He knows about projections, but what part of his mind is this? How can _his father_ be here? 

“What’s wrong?” His father asks the question as if he doesn’t understand, but James knows that if this is truly a projection of his mind, then it does understand. He searches his father’s gaze for the truth, and finds a cold amusement therein. James’ breath catches. He can’t stand it any more. This is too real, too close to home. If he lets himself dream this dream, it will drive him crazy. He _knows_ it.

He turns and runs from the doorway. When he glances over his shoulder, he sees that Dad has vanished. He slows.

There is no one to wake him up. He’ll have to find a high place.

The very thought makes James’ stomach lurch. But it might be the only way for him to get back to reality without being driven mad by projections of his own mind. Ariadne must have shielded him from them before. Why hadn’t she warned him? 

He can’t worry about that. He needs stairs. He needs a way to climb. 

“James.”

“No!” he cries, whirling. But it’s only Ariadne. He gasps, breath driven from him in surprise, and stares at her. “What are you doing here?”

She smiles at him and steps closer. “I’m not really here, James. Did you think I’d found you in that dusty stairwell? You should know better.”

And he does – oh, he _does_. Ariadne isn’t really here. No more than Dad was. She’s just another projection of his mind.

“I’m here to help,” she says. “What do you need?”

“I want to wake up,” he says.

Ariadne nods, long hair falling over her shoulders. “And you don’t want to jump?”

“No.” Definitely not.

“Then I’ll have to kill you,” she says. Her shoulders stiffen and James thinks (though he’s not had much cause to before) that maybe Ariadne hates dying in dreams as much as he does. “I can’t make it quick. I don’t have a gun. You know, you could always make the building explode.”

James goes white. And have them both suffocate to death under the fallen blocks and beams that make up the museum? “No. I’d rather have you do it.”

She shrugs as if the decision is of no consequence. “Okay.” She steps forward, and James steels himself as she wraps her hands around his throat. “I’m sorry,” she says, “but I never did master the art of snapping someone’s neck.” Her grip tightens and James’ breathing slows.

He can still breathe, if he wants to, if he struggles. But the point of this is death, and struggling will only prolong the inevitable.

He lets himself fall, knees buckling, and Ariadne follows. She kneels next to him and presses him down against the cold stone floor. James’ hands fist and he tries not to resist, to fight. It’s so hard.

Her eyes look the color of caramel. Her hair is long enough to brush his lips. It’s so soft. She is so beautiful.

His gaze drifts beyond her, then, and like a mirage he sees a spiral staircase, rising along the back wall of the room. He could have climbed - jumped. 

His vision goes grey and then, like an old television set, fizzles and winks out.

 

 

 

 

-

It is dark in his corner of the stairwell, but bright above – light filters down and motes of dust glint in the gleam. James takes a long, deep breath and lets it go. He reaches carefully down and pulls the needle from his arm.

He coils the tubing away and snaps the lid of the case shut. His heart is steady, and so is his breathing. Only his fingers shake.

He reaches into his pocket and touches his totem. He carefully thinks of nothing but reality.

He pulls his legs beneath him and pushes himself up, using the wall for balance. He listens for a moment, to be sure no one is above, and then climbs the stairs to look for an exit.

-

The next morning, the sun shines directly into James’ eyes and wakes him. He grumbles and sits up. 

When he heads into the kitchen, Phil is eating her own breakfast, ignoring him completely. Just the same as she had last night, but this time James isn’t willing to allow her time to think about her feelings and anger. 

“I think Dad knows,” he says, leaning against the counter. He sounds a whole lot calmer than he feels. 

Her gaze snaps up to meet his and her fork clatters as it hits her plate. “What? What did you do?”

“Nothing!” James cries. He slumps down into a chair at the table and forces his hands through his hair. “He called yesterday, and wanted to talk to you. I told him you couldn’t talk and would call him back later and he told me I was lying and that it was a mistake for me to ever come to London.” He buries his face in his hands. 

Phil waits a moment before asking, “So he didn’t actually tell you that he knew about the dreams, or about Ariadne?”

James shakes his head. How can he explain about the dream he’d had right afterward, where Dad had told him that he knew? How can he explain the feeling that it left him with, the unease that had coursed through him, and still flows? He can’t.

“It wasn’t what he said, really. It was that he jumped all over me. The call went from normal to horrible in about three seconds flat. It was like he knew something, and was just waiting for an excuse to get angry.”

“James,” Phil sighs. 

“You have to understand! I’m not _lying_.”

“I never said that,” she snaps. Then she grimaces, and says to herself, “What a shitty thing to do.” She looks right at James, snagging his gaze. “Okay, this is what you’re going to do.”

James nods, desperately grateful that she still loves him, is still willing to help him. 

“Since Dad didn’t say anything, and you have three days left of vacation, you’re going to go on like normal.”

James stiffens, ready to protest that he can’t do any such thing, but she speaks right over him. 

“You can’t spend the next few days sulking and worrying, for fuck’s sake. Go back to Ariadne and try to finish this job that you’re working on. You told me you’re making quick progress, so I bet you could wrap it up in the time you have left. _Make_ her do it quickly.”

He can’t do that, and he knows it, but he saves the protests to avoid irritating Phil. Ariadne will finish the job when she’s ready, and James has no say in that. But it’s true - he hasn’t told her when he’s leaving, yet. He has to. 

“In the meantime,” Phil continues. “I’ll talk to Dad. I’ll call home and straighten his shit out, because I don’t know what’s wrong, but it can’t be that bad. I’ll fix it so that he apologizes.”

James smiles at her. “You think you can do all that?” It seems a tall order. 

“Fuck!” she exclaims, leaning back and grinning at him. “Of _course_ I can! I’m your sister, after all.”

“Thanks.” James knows that he still sounds depressed, but he does feel better. Phil can take care of this. 

“Now you,” she says, “need to go out and do your fucking job.” She flicks his fingers at him. “Call that woman.”

James laughs, and pulls his phone out of the pocket of yesterday’s clothes. He also really needs to take a shower. 

-

He meets Ariadne in a hotel room. Self conscious, he keeps the PASIV case close. He wonders if the staff thinks he’s sleeping with her.

When he closes the door behind him, Ariadne looks up from the papers she has spread across the bed.

“This is it,” she says, and a wide smile bursts across her face. “We’ll be going after the mark tomorrow.”

“So soon?” James’ mouth is dry. He never thought she’d be so willing; he’d been worried that when he told her he only has a few days left, she’d get upset with him again.

“There’s no need to wait.” She stands and reaches for the PASIV. James hands it to her and she lays it carefully on the one empty spot left on the bed – left bare as if she’d been waiting for something just that size. “I’m ready, you’re ready, and Yusuf gave me the _perfect_ blend of somnacin yesterday. The mark won’t be getting away from me.”

 _Not this time_ , her tone implies, and James frowns. He didn’t think that Ariadne knew the mark – she’d certainly never said anything about that before.

“Are you sure everything’s ready?” he settles for.

Ariadne sighs and nods. “I’ve been planning this job for years. You were the last piece missing, and you’ve learned the dreaming so quickly. We don’t need to wait any longer.” She beckons him closer. “Now, our plan. Tell me about the labyrinth.”

James settles carefully on the edge of the bed. 

“We know it needs to be inside. Something simple, but which looks complex to the dreamer. I want to make our labyrinth the British Museum.”

“Now you’ll want to be careful,” Ariadne says after a pause. “If you put too many details in the dream - especially the kind that comes with artwork, the mark can hide his secrets there. We want him to have just one place to put his secret. And remember, this man has had practice with the dreaming. He’ll be aware, from the very start, that he’s asleep. Your job is to make him comfortable enough to let his secret go.”

James nods. He’d planned to fill the halls of the museum with paintings, circling closer and closer to a single, central room. He’d thought that it would guide the mark along, make him feel at home. But she’s right. If the mark can make his secret look like anything, it would be too easy for him to hide it among the artworks. 

“The walls will be white,” he says. “The layout will be like the Museum, with lots of interlocking rooms leading to the center point, but there’ll be no art. The mark can add that, if he wishes. It will be an easy way for us to tell what he’s changed.”

She nods. “That sounds solid. And the shortcut?”

James had almost forgotten. “A spiral staircase,” he says. “Leading from the first room straight to the last. The mark won’t be able to see it, but we will.”

“And this path that the mark walks. Will it all be on one floor?”

“Yeah,” James says. He hadn’t really thought about that. 

Ariadne smiles. “And yet we’ll climb up a set of stairs to reach the end. Very good, James. You’re getting the hang of paradoxes.”

He smiles back. 

“Now, let’s talk about the rest of the job - this is what I’ve been working on.”

Ariadne reaches for a photograph laid out on the bed and pulls it closer to her. James leans in and recognizes it.

“This is the mark’s apartment. We’ll find him here, just the two of us. We’ll be going in late tomorrow night, so you’ll have to set an alarm. The security on the building the mark lives in is… adequate, but no more. It should be no problem for us to slip inside at 2:30. That will give us plenty of time to get the job done.”

“What if the mark isn’t asleep?” James can’t help asking. All he can imagine is walking into the mark’s apartment and seeing him there, sitting up and waiting for them.

Ariadne’s gaze is sharp. “Don’t worry about that. I have contingency plans in place. If he’s awake, we put him under by force.” She shoves the photograph back into its spot. “Now, since he’ll be out, it will be easy to hook him up to the PASIV and tie his dreams in with ours. Then we’ll go under and find his secret. You will keep the dream steady, and I will do the searching. When the task is complete, we’ll either time out of the dream or give ourselves a kick. We can leave the mark sleeping, and be gone. He’ll never know we were there. Yes?”

James nods in response.

“Now, you must remember – the mark cannot be killed in his dream. He must stay alive, and dreaming, for us to succeed. You are responsible for shaping the dream. You will guide the mark into giving us his secrets. I have to ask – can you do it?”

She has spent days training him, reassuring him that he’s good enough despite his own disbelief. The question of _why me_ has been lurking in his mind for days. And now she asks whether he thinks he can complete the job?

Well, there’s no choice now, is there? All he has left is the dreaming. “Yes,” he says. “Of course I can do it.”

-

“Well?” he asks, settling wearily onto the couch. 

“Our choices are,” Phil says grandly, gesturing towards the television, “an Ab Fab marathon, Room 101, or... the latest series of Downton Abbey.” She sticks her tongue out at the last choice and James sends her a smile. “What do you think?”

“What’s funniest?”

“Well,” she says, pursing her lips, “Ab Fab is fucking ridiculous, Room 101 is great but a bit tedious at times, and Downton Abbey is worth it just to make fun of the new plot twists.” She waggles her eyebrows at him.

James scoots close and leans against his sister, resting his head on her shoulder. “Fucking ridiculous, please.”

Phil changes the channel and James settles in. After a few moments in a show which seems to consist of mostly screeching, he asks, “Did you talk to Dad?”

“No. I called the house and his cell, several times, but he never picked up. I’m sorry, Jay. I’ll try again tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, curling a hand around her arm. “Ariadne and I are going to practice the dream for the last time tomorrow afternoon, and then go after the mark tomorrow night. It won’t be too much longer until I can talk to Dad myself.”

“Well, shit,” she whispers, and leans her cheek against his head, “I’ll call anyway. He should know better than to hurt you like that.”

They watch the show for a while, and despite James’ exhaustion and worry, he begins to relax and laugh a bit. 

“You’ll call?” Phil suddenly asks, and James draws back to look at her. “Me, I mean. After you practice tomorrow, you have to call. I want to tell you how amazing you are so that you can go ahead and kick this job’s ass.”

“You’ve just told me.”

“Fuck that, I’ll tell you again tomorrow.”

James laughs and buries his face in her sweater. She’s warm, and smells lovely. And he really, really needs to go to sleep. 

“Yeah, I’ll call,” he says. 

“Damn straight.”

They go back to watching, and James drops off into black dreams before the credits roll. 

-

 

 

 

 

The service elevator creaks and groans, making James nervous. At this rate, he’s sure they’ll be discovered.

His mind keeps playing their cover over and over. If anyone questions why they’re here, Ariadne will step forward. James is to smile and nod and play along as she explains how she is visiting one of the upstairs tenants with her younger brother – how they had gotten lost on the London streets and are only just arriving. She will smile charmingly, playing the American, and James knows that they’ll believe her. As long as he doesn’t give the game away.

Ariadne reaches out and lays her hand on James’ arm, wrenching him from his thoughts. The warmth of it shocks him and he looks over at her.

The lights from the elevator shaft throw moving lines of light across her, going from her toes to the tip of her head, and then vanish. She blinks calmly at him, and offers a small smile.

“Stop,” she whispers, and James nods sharply. He’s worrying too much, and he knows it.

He forces all thought from his mind as the elevator slows and stops, and the doors grind open. Ariadne steps calmly out, ahead of James, and pauses. She surveys the hall and then nods, turning to the right and walking quickly. James darts out behind her, gaze shifting up and down the empty hall, struggling to keep up with her quick strides.

At the fifth door she stops and falls gracefully to her knees, leaning close to the knob of the door in front of her. She lays the PASIV case down and reaches into her pocket, bringing out a slim leather roll. “Hold this,” she whispers, and James takes it from her.

She unwraps the cording that holds the roll closed and carefully opens it. Slim silver implements clink as they’re revealed and James squints at them. Ariadne selects a few and draws them out, leaning close to the door once more. She lifts them to the keyhole, and carefully slips them into it.

“Sometimes,” she whispers low enough that James has to lean close to hear her, “a pick is quieter than a key.” She flashes a grin at James, and he manages a small smile in response. It’s true – her sure hands and the lockpicks are far quieter than the grind of a key would be.

In another moment, she draws the picks back and slips them away. She rolls to her feet and takes the set of tools from James, closing it back up and tying it tight. It disappears whence it came and she lifts the PASIV once more. “Ready?” she asks, turning to smile at James.

“Yeah,” he says, and it’s true. _Finally_ , he’s ready.

Ariadne reaches out and carefully opens the door. They slip inside together, closing the door to keep a minimum of light from the hall from seeping inside.

Inside, the mark’s apartment is just as James remembers seeing in the papers Ariadne had given him. Or as close as he can be sure of it being, since the place is currently shrouded in a post-midnight darkness. The far wall is taken up by a long window with curtains drawn over it; the light that manages to get around them is all that he and Ariadne can use to see. Everything is very clean and neatly organized.

The kitchen is to the right, off the main hall. Straight ahead is the bedroom, the main room of the apartment, and in the center of the bed is the mark. James’ heart thuds painfully in his chest as he sees the man sleeping there.

The mark is on his side, sheets pulled up tight around him and face pressed into the pillow, so all James can see is his outline. Ariadne glides forward and bends over the mark, perilously close in James’ opinion. He creeps across the room slowly. She smiles down at him, pleased, then looks up at James.

Ariadne gestures sharply, telling him to move more quickly, and places the PASIV on the bedside table. She unlocks the case and draws out one of the lines – already prepared with a fresh needle earlier in the day. She seems to double over herself and James knows that she’s pushing the needle into her wrist. They will tend to the mark last, to reduce the chance that he’ll wake before they’re ready.

James moves around the bed and stretches out his arm. Ariadne takes it and slides the needle in, barely looking, then pulls out the last line. Since the only chair is over by the window, James lowers himself to the floor, leaning against the bed.

James’ breath catches as Ariadne leans over the mark and nudges the sheet back. She pushes the needle in and then nods towards James. He wishes he could read her expression, see whether she’s as nervous as he is. But in this darkness, all is lost.

She presses the activation button and settles down on the floor. With a soft swish, the PASIV begins to work, and the mark shifts in his sleep.

A flood of adrenaline courses through James and he freezes. The mark settles, quiet, drawing his hands towards him.

Then the familiar lethargy and calmness sweeps over James, and he lets his eyes slip closed, watching Ariadne’s silhouette against the wall all the while.

 

 

 

 

James reaches into his pocket. His hourglass is warm and he pulls it halfway out, glancing at the sands. This is the dream. It’s time to get to work.

Ariadne steps up beside him and puts her hand on James’ arm. He glances over to her and she nods. “Good job,” she says softly. James smiles at her and sighs.

The entrance hall of the British Museum is greatly changed from reality. The hall is foreshortened, ending in a vast spiral staircase that rises from the floor and curves, disappearing upwards beyond the ceiling. James follows it with his eyes, and swallows. _At least_ , he thinks, _with a spiral staircase, I can’t look back and see how far I’ve climbed._

The other great change in the museum is the lack of people. There are no visitors to crowd that space. It is pristine, and absolutely silent. The walls are clean and free of art. The click of Ariadne’s heels echoes as she steps away from James. She stops and carefully lifts her foot, removing first one shoe, then the other. Her next steps are silent.

She turns back to James. “I don’t like this,” she hisses, and the sound carries straight to James’ ears. “We’re too exposed here. There should be _projections_ , crowds of people to disguise us. Instead…” She waves a hand to gesture at the hall, and James knows exactly what she means.

He walks towards her, careful to make no noise. “Don’t projections come from the mind of the dreamer?” he asks. “If we’re in the mark’s dream, isn’t it possible that he simply has no projections? His apartment was very tidy.”

Ariadne shakes her head. “That doesn’t mean a thing. He should have projections. _Everyone_ creates projections when they dream.”

Yet the mark obviously hasn’t. Ariadne frowns, lines appearing between her eyes as she thinks. James leans close.

“We can’t do anything about it, though. Do you want to end the dream?”

“No!” Ariadne’s retort is too sudden, too loud, though it is barely more than a whisper.

It shocks James into taking a step backwards.

“Something is wrong,” she says. “But we can’t back out now. All we can do is try to be prepared.” Ariadne draws a gun out – James hadn’t even known she had one, but isn’t terribly surprised. She holds it low by her side, shoes held tight in her other hand, and begins to walk carefully across the entrance hall.

Swallowing around his nervousness, James follows. He’s glad that he doesn’t have a gun, because it would only make him more nervous.

Off to the sides of the entrance hall are doorways. There are no doors to close them, yet somehow James finds it impossible to see through the doorways until he’s almost upon them. Ariadne slows as they come upon the first and raises her gun. They peer in together.

The scene within does not belong in the British Museum, except perhaps in a painting. Beyond the doorway lies a dark land covered in blue-black grass, under a violet sky. James reaches out tentatively, then stops himself. He doesn’t know where this dream-fragment has come from, and he’s afraid that he’ll get lost in it. He backs away and glances at Ariadne.

She is staring at him, and when he meets her gaze she gestures for him to follow and walks away from the doorway.

At the next door, Ariadne barely hesitates, but steps past it after barely a pause and heads for the spiral staircase. James is a moment slower, and sees, beyond that doorway, a lake filled with black water, reflecting a violet sky. These must be the mark’s influence on his dream. He shivers and turns away, bounding up the first few steps after Ariadne.

Up they go, Ariadne’s gun lifted high and James feeling highly unprepared. He concentrates on placing one foot ahead of the other and listening. There is nothing beyond the scuff of Ariadne’s socks against the floor and the soft clack of the heels of James’ shoes. Where is everyone?

Ariadne is right – something is wrong. James thinks that they should get out of the dream now, before it gets worse.

The stairs end, and James sighs with relief. He looks up and sees Ariadne silhouetted in yet another doorway; it is three times the size of her, and through it James can see projections – hundreds of them, all gathered in one room. He freezes, then forces himself to move. The spiral staircase - the shortcut - connects the beginning of the labyrinth to the end. This is where they have been driving the mark, forcing him to go by lack of another choice. This room will hold his secret.

Slowly, Ariadne crouches and places her shoes on the floor. She steps into them and turns to James, smiling.

“Hold this,” she says, and hands him the gun.

James’ fingers immediately cramp into place and he refuses to shift them. He balances the gun carefully on his palms, and just as carefully does not look at it.

“Your shortcut really was quite lovely,” Ariadne is saying. “And now we’ve found the center of the dream. His secret will be here, and I have to find it. The projections will make that more challenging, of course, but you’re going to help me blend in.”

She reaches out and grasps the edges of James’ coat. She shifts it, shrugging it more firmly into place on his shoulders.

“How I am going to help you blend in?” James asks. “This isn’t my dream.”

“No,” she says. “But it looks like they’re having a party in there, and you’re going to be my date.” Her smile flashes into a grin and James, surprised, looks over her shoulder.

She’s right. The projections are dressed in formal attire – suits and gowns. They seem to be talking to each other and drinking, and not one of them is looking at James and Ariadne.

“I’m not wearing the right clothes,” James says. Ariadne steps back.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that that’s true,” she says, and he notices that her clothes have changed. No longer is she wearing dark jeans and a jacket – now she has on a long gown that brushes the floor, cut from some kind of shining silver fabric.

James swallows. It’s stunning - _she’s_ stunning. He can’t compare to her. It’s then that James notices that his clothes feel different and glances down. He’s wearing a _suit_. It’s more of a tuxedo, actually, and James can feel the tailored fabric brushing against his arms, his ribs, the top of his thighs. He’s never worn anything quite like it before.

He glances up at Ariadne, mouth gaping in astonishment. “How? When did you—“

“Just now,” she says, and reaches out to give his lapel a final adjustment. A bow tie slithers into place around his neck. “I learned the trick from an old friend.”

If James wasn’t so thrilled, he might pay more attention to the fact that she seems slightly sad as she says this – instead, he simply files the observation away for later and hands the gun back to her. She holds it close by her side, but doesn’t put it away.

Ariadne lifts her arm, and James reaches out to take it. She nods and presses her slim body close to him. “Ready?” she asks, and all mischief has left her tone.

James nods, not trusting himself to speak. Ariadne steps forward and he follows, and they pass through the arched doorway.

James is tense, at first. His hand grasps Ariadne’s arm tightly and his back feels frozen and rigid, but he can’t help himself. These projection aren’t his or Ariadne’s – they belong to the mark. They make him nervous.

As he walks, James begins to notice that the projections seem accustomed to his presence. When he mutters, “excuse me,” they nod to him and step out of the way. When Ariadne smiles at them, they smile back. After a few moments, she pats his arm and James carefully disengages himself, flexing fingers that have started to cramp.

She leans close. “We should be fine, now. Act casual, and look for any place that could hold a secret – anything secure. If you spot it, come to me right away. Understand?”

James nods, and she steps away, vanishing into the crowd almost immediately. James freezes, unsure where to go without Ariadne guiding him.

“Lovely party, don’t you think?” comes a voice from behind James, making him jump. He whirls to see a tall brunette standing beside him. “Oh!” she exclaims. “I’m so sorry – I didn’t mean to startle you.” Her smile is gracious, and James smiles back.

“No, no,” he says faintly. She’s a projection. He’s talking to a projection. Isn’t this against the rules, somehow? “I’m fine.”

Her laugh is high and fast. “I should hope so,” she says. “You’re far too young to take injury from a little scare like that.”

James laughs lightly in response. She’s actually very nice. He hadn’t expected that. “You never know,” he says.

She nods. “Have you seen the pieces downstairs? I found them to be quite spectacular – impeccable works of art.”

James thinks for a moment. “Do you mean the landscapes? Beyond the doorways? The lake and field?”

“Yes, just those. I was so impressed by the illusionism in them. I almost felt like I could just step out and into them, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” James says. “I felt the same.”

“Of course, it’s good I didn’t. Our host would have been _so_ upset if I’d ruined his commissions. He loves his artworks so, and I wouldn’t do anything to ruin them for him. That would be the end of me, I assure you.”

The woman – the _projection_ \- seems amused, despite her comment.

“I don’t…” He hesitates, not sure if he’s asking the right question. Then he says, _damn it all_ , and asks anyway. “I don’t think I’ve met the host tonight.”

“You haven’t?” She seems surprised, and James can’t blame her. When you’re a projection of the host’s mind, it must seem terribly strange to meet someone who doesn’t know who your host is. “Let me introduce you, then.”

She reaches out and takes his hand, passing her glass to a waiter with a tray, and pulls James forward.

“Ah, no,” he says, trying to pull away discreetly. “I don’t need to meet him now. I just haven’t seen him yet, and wanted to know where he is so I can say hello later. Really, you don’t need to worry about me,” he says.

“Oh,” she says, and the smile she casts back toward him is full of teeth. “I’m not worried.” She pulls him to the edge of the crowd and lets James go. He staggers to a halt and realizes that he’s looking towards the very center of the room, where three people are standing.

His world freezes and drops out from under him.

The man standing in the very center of the room is familiar to James – he’s met him twice, in the café and in the _real_ British Museum, and spoken with him both times. He had been friendly, and he’d given James his card. He is dressed impeccably in a tuxedo, and standing very close to another man – taller, more thickly muscled, who is wearing an old jacket and patterned shirt. James knows at once that they’re lovers, by the way they’re standing. Ariadne is walking towards them, gun held high, and the man James knows is looking directly at her.

His eyes are calm, unsurprised. His lover’s lips draw back in a snarl and he moves to lunge forward. The man pushes him back and turns.

“Hello, Ariadne,” he says, and his voice is calm. “I’m glad you’ve come.”

His voice is just the same as James remembers, and he _knows_ in that instant that this man is the mark. He’s the one that they have been after the entire time, but he _knew_ that they were after him, and he knows James, and _he knows Ariadne_.

The world spins around James for a moment, the same as when he looks down from a high point, but different, and it keeps spinning until Ariadne speaks and everything becomes very clear.

“Arthur,” she says, tone dark.

 _Oh_ , James thinks. _She lied to me. This isn’t a job after all. This is something much worse._

Arthur’s lover steps past him and pushes Arthur back. He seems ready to take Ariadne down with his bare hands, yet hesitates in the face of her gun. Even from this distance, James can see Ariadne’s face twist into a sneer.

“How pathetic,” she hisses. “You’re keeping a projection of a dead man to comfort you? Can’t you conjure anything better?”

Arthur slips past his lover and narrows his eyes at Ariadne. “None of this would have been necessary if you hadn’t killed him.”

Ariadne’s chin lifts defiantly. “I did not kill Eames,” she growls, and James has to strain to make out the words.

The laugh that bursts from Arthur is tight and harsh. “Of course you did, you _bitch_.”

Ariadne steps forward and James watches her finger tighten around the trigger.

“Not another word from you.”

“Oh? And how far are you going to go with this?” Arthur asks. “Who else are you going to destroy before this is finished?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Ariadne snaps, and James swallows. His eyes slip closed. He wants to wake up. He can’t even pray that this is truly a dream, because it _is_ a dream, and that fact only makes this moment worse.

Who is Ariadne, really? Why has he never thought to ask the question before?

Arthur laughs, a harsh, vicious sound. “Are you going to kill me now? If you do that, I’ll just wake and kill you first.” His gaze rakes over her. “I should have done so years ago. It’s a pity that I missed my shot.” 

Ariadne’s glare deepens and the scar on her cheek tightens.

“Where are they?” she shouts. “Your memories of me. Where have you hidden them?”

James is confused for a moment, before he realizes, _the secret_.

“You’re such a fool,” Arthur whispers, and James realized that it must be completely silent for him to hear those words. He forces himself to look around and sees that the projections are silent, each and every one turned to face the center of the room and the confrontation ongoing. “Did you think that you could trick me into giving those to you with such a simple dream? You should have created the dream yourself - this boy isn’t up to the task. You’ll need a lot more that this dream to entrap me.” Arthur’s gaze turns and meets James’, and he starts in shock at the dismissal he sees there. “He’s just a _child_ , Ariadne. You brought Dom’s son here. You didn’t just betray me – you betrayed all of us.”

James wants to disappear, but the projections around him have stepped back, leaving him exposed. He clenches his hands tightly behind his back.

“James made his own choices,” Ariadne says. “He didn’t follow me here blind.”

He watches as Ariadne’s arm – raised so long and still holding the gun – begins to tremble.

“I doubt you told him the entire truth,” Arthur says. “Just like he never told you the whole truth. Did James mention that he’d met me before?”

Ariadne’s head whips around and she stares at James, wide-eyed.

“No!” James exclaims, unable to keep silent. “It isn’t like that. I didn’t even know who he _was_. And you never showed me a picture of him, so how was I supposed to know?” He steps forward, desperate. James _never_ would have betrayed her deliberately. Yet he sees the pain flash through her eyes as she turns back to Arthur.

“It seems I’m not the only one who lied,” she hisses.

Arthur ignores her, stepping around his lover – Eames – and moving toward James. 

“What I’m wondering,” Arthur says, “is why Ariadne - the great architect, the master dreamer - had to have someone else build her dream.” He turns his profile to James and looks at Ariadne. “What was stopping you from coming after me, dear? Have you been keeping secrets for so long that you can’t even parse your own subconscious anymore?”

Ariadne’s heels click as she moves forward, towards Arthur. Eames imposes himself between them once more.

Arthur turns back to James. “Would you like to know the secret that she wanted to destroy?” Arthur asks.

Ariadne keeps the gun trained on Arthur and her gaze upon Eames. “He doesn’t need to know the sordid details, Arthur. He’s just a child.” She takes another step, and Eames moves to force her back.

“I am no—“ James begins, when a gunshot cuts him off.

He flinches wildly and sees Arthur fall back, reaching into his jacket. Ariadne shrieks and James nearly screams in response. He stumbles around to look at her and sees that she is clutching her shoulder and that her gun is hanging limply from her fingertips. An instant more, her fingers spasm and the gun falls, clattering across the hard floor. Her face is twisted in pain and she glares at the crowd of projections behind James.

Carefully, his hands still reflexively over his head, James turns to find the shooter.

It’s his father. The projections part around him, allowing him through and watching him warily. Arthur steps up beside James, relaxed once more, though he holds a gun of his own in his hand.

James edges away from him. There are too many firearms here, and it’s making his skin crawl.

“Dom,” Arthur says. “I’m glad you could make it.”

Dad nods shortly, his gaze raking over James quickly. He flushes, but refuses to look away. 

“Thanks for calling me about James,” he says. “I would have hoped that she would have spoken to me herself, but Ariadne has obviously changed since I taught her.”

“How did you get here? You shouldn’t have been able to enter this dream,” Ariadne hisses.

When James’ father turns his pale gaze on Ariadne, James recognizes the look well. It’s disappointment and pity, all wrapped up in one bitter package. “I’ve been working with Yusuf. If you’re going to try and pull a job like this, you should know better than to trust anyone.”

“How dare you?” Ariadne spits. “You know why I’m here, and you’re still going to try to stop me? When James told me how much of a coward you’d become – how you were hiding the dreaming from everyone, including yourself – I could barely believe him. But now… now I see.” She straightens to utter this speech, and then gasps with pain and bends over herself once more.

James’ stomach lurches. He twitches, and Dad’s gaze snaps to him.

“I’m sure my son said no such thing. In fact,” he says, “I think you’ve misled James every step of the way. We’re going to have to talk about that.”

Ariadne’s mouth opens as Dad raises his gun and pulls the trigger. Her head snaps back, the bullet hole a dark smudge on her forehead from this distance, and drops heavily to the ground. Her outstretched hand reaches towards James, and her eyes stare, unseeing, at the ceiling.

James gasps and crouches, wrapping his arms around himself. He’s never seen her die before – she always shot him first.

Dad steps past him and lays his hand briefly on the top of James head. It’s so _warm_ , and it makes something inside James clench. He watches his father’s shoes move away, and the touch disappears.

“Tell James the truth,” his father is saying. James looks up and sees that he’s speaking to Arthur and Eames, standing close to one another and completely alone. The other projections have vanished like so many wisps of smoke. “All of it. He’s involved now, and long overdue to know everything.”

James forces himself to stand. Arthur nods and Eames steps closer to him. 

Dad turns and looks down at Ariadne. “It’s a pity,” he whispers, and James strains to hear him. “She was such a natural.” 

_A natural_. The phrase rings through James, stopping his breath for an instant.

He glances up, directly at James. “Look away.” Then he raises his gun and presses the muzzle to his temple.

James’ stomach leaps and he flinches away – not quite fast enough. The shot echoes and James sees his father fall to the floor to lie next to Ariadne.

His heart is pounding slowly; too slow. James clutches at his chest. Why won’t it beat properly? There’s something wrong with him. He stares at the blank white floor pleadingly, yet it offers no answers. His breath sticks in his throat and he knows that if he closes his eyes, even for a single blink, he’ll be lost.

A hand wraps around his arm and James jumps violently, his heart and breaths restarting in a single fell swoop. He gasps and turns to see Arthur leaning close.

“Are you all right?” Arthur asks, all malice gone from him, and his voice swims through James’ ears for a moment before it snaps to coherency.

“Of course,” he says, and straightens. His heart is pounding straight through him, to the very tips of his fingers and nose. He looks over Arthur’s shoulder at Eames – a projection, the only one remaining in this vast room – and his gaze flies over and away from Ariadne and his father.

Arthur reaches out and touches his shoulder lightly. He turns James away from the bloody scene, though it sticks in the place just behind his eyelids. He shakes his head to rid himself of it.

“Come with me,” Arthur says, guiding him towards the door. James pulls back.

Arthur looks sad, a touch of mourning clouding his eyes. He glances down, then steps away from James. Eames steps through the doorway without looking back.

“We just want to talk,” Arthur says. “I... apologize for my harshness earlier.” He turns his gaze up to the vaulted ceiling. “This is a lovely dream, really.” He follows Eames out of the room.

James holds still for a second longer, then moves after them.

In the open space after the doorway, yet before the stairs begin, is a small café table and three chairs. They’re made from iron bars, thick and curling up from the floor, coiling around to make the tabletop. James walks over to it and settles into the last empty chair. Arthur offers him a small smile. James sits back and crosses his arms in front of him, hugging them close.

“Ariadne said you were dead,” James says, staring at Eames. “And Arthur said that she killed you. Is that true?”

The gaze Eames turns on James is calm, almost meditative. He nods. “Yes, I’m dead. It’s only because Arthur is a truly excellent dreamer that I’m here at all.” He slants a smile towards Arthur.

“I can’t be that good,” Arthur says, and James, hearing the sudden contrast in their tones, realizes that Eames is British. “Otherwise I never would have lost you.”

Eames shakes his head. “You couldn’t stop it, love. Ariadne is, and always has been, a natural at the dreaming.”

“What do you mean, a ‘natural’?”

Eames turns a heavy-lidded gaze on him. “Ariadne has always been able to do things in dreams that left others astounded. She could reshape the dreaming dramatically with a simple thought, and acted as if it was the simplest thing in the world. I doubt she had any idea of how powerful she was.”

“I agree,” Arthur says. “For all her skill and knowledge, Ariadne was ignorant for a long time of what she could do with the power she had over dreams.” He swallows and looks down.

“Three years ago, the three of us were working a job together,” Eames says. “It went wrong quickly. The mark discovered us and wanted us out, and we were surrounded by projections that acted very like zombies.”

James shudders inwardly at the image.

“Ariadne had designed the dream in a desert, so the land was flat in all directions. There was no way for us to get a traditional kick – to fall - and our guns had been lost. We needed to wake up.” He pauses. “Ariadne had an idea.”

“I had a knife,” Arthur says. “I should have told her, should have said something, but I let her talk. I let her _explain_ her idea. If I hadn’t...”

“This is what she told us,” Eames breaks in, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. “Ariadne knew that she could change things in dreams – even destroy them. So she thought that she could destroy us, shatter us to pieces, and that even though it wasn’t like a normal death, it would wake us. It would be like forcing a kick. She reached out for me before Arthur thought to mention his knife.”

He pauses. “Needless to say,” Eames says with a sad smile, “it wasn’t like a kick at all. When she touched me, she shattered me, and I died. She destroyed my mind; wiped it clean from existence.”

“I didn’t know that, then. All I saw was that Eames had disappeared. But I saw the pain on his face as Ariadne touched him, and I knew that something was wrong. She had moved too fast, hadn’t given us time to think and decide. She’d just... _killed_ him. I wouldn’t let her touch me.”

“He drew his knife,” Eames says. “He tried to reason with her, tell her that something was wrong. Even then, he didn’t want to believe that something had happened to me. She tried to persuade him that he way was safe, that he didn’t have to die painfully to wake. But Arthur slit his own throat and left her for the projections in that wasteland.”

 _And the desert haunts her still_. James knows all too well what that desert looks like - how the heat of it feels on his skin, how it smells. It was a beautifully crafted dream, and now Ariadne can never escape it.

James swallows. “How do you know all that?” His voice comes out a harsh whisper and he clears his throat. “You were already dead.”

“The real me was dead,” Eames’ tone is delicate, pitying, as if the tragedy happened to someone else entirely. “I am merely a projection of Arthur’s mind.” He reaches out and places his hand over Arthur’s where it rests on the table. Arthur’s shoulders rise and the skin around his eyes tightens.

“Eames wouldn’t wake after that job. We tried everything, Ariadne and I. We called your father, Yusuf - who you might know - and other old colleagues. He simply lay there, sleeping for weeks. We didn’t know yet that he was gone. We couldn’t care for him, and he began to waste away.” Arthur lifts a hand and then lets it fall, motion aborted. “He died a month later. And then I knew why. I knew Ariadne had done it. She had killed him through ignorance and lack of caution, and I _hated_ her for it.” His voice drops low and seething on the last words.

“She wouldn’t admit what she’d done,” Eames says. “But after he tried to kill her, she fled. Arthur hasn’t seen her in years, until now. Not in person, at least.”

Arthur sends him an annoyed glance. “She’s been so quiet. I thought she might have stopped dreaming altogether. That she might have realized her mistakes. Yet here she is.”

“She wanted to destroy your secrets,” James says. “She said that she was looking for your memories of her. How can that be a secret?”

“Anything intangible in the mind can become tangible in dreams.. My theory is that whatever Ariadne destroys in the dreaming vanishes forever. Because she destroyed Eames, he died. If she destroys one of my memories, then that will cease to exist. I’ll never remember how Eames died.” He takes a deep breath. “Which is why I have to stop her.”

“Determined, this one,” Eames drawls, raising a brow at Arthur, who looks over and smiles, taking his hand. They look happy, James realizes. Despite everything they’ve been through, they look happy.

“We can’t delay any longer,” Arthur sighs. He pauses, looking at the interlaced fingers of his and Eames’ hands for a moment, before turning to James. “How would you like the kick?”

“Quickly,” James says. Arthur nods and pulls his gun from under the table. “Wait,” James says. “I just need a moment longer. Let me think for a second before we wake.” He shoves back from the table without pausing and stands, turning away from Arthur and Eames. 

Everything has changed. This isn’t the job he’d thought it was; this isn’t a way into the dreaming. It’s a Gordian knot of revenge and hatred, and James wishes he could just cut through it with a knife. Instead, he feels trapped. Ariadne has been keeping deep secrets, and now it looks like James is supposed to trust the mark, Arthur. It’s crazy. How can he trust Arthur, when he hates Ariadne so much? And how can he trust Ariadne when she’s betrayed him?

The only person here who James knows well enough to trust is his father, and James can’t be sure about that. After all, he’s lied to James for years about the dreaming, and then he came to London when he’d said he would give James some time. That explains why Phil hadn’t been able to talk with him, at least.

Footsteps. James turns to see Eames walking towards him. Eames nods and stops next to James, hands shoved in his pockets. 

“I appreciate that this is all very new to you,” he says. “And I have to say, it’s refreshing to see such a young face in the dreaming. But...” He pauses, pursing his lips. “I have to warn you. The dreaming is a dangerous business. It cultivates secrets.” He leans close, reaching out to grip James’ arm. “Trust no one.”

He steps back, leaving James staggering. “Now go ahead,” he says, nodding toward Arthur. “Finish the dream. Wake up.” With a half smile he turns away.

James backs slowly away. _Trust no one_. Not Arthur, or Ariadne, or even Dad? What about himself? He’s beginning to that that even is too much to ask. If James can’t trust anyone, how can he possibly get out of this alive? He shivers, and turns to look at Arthur. He forces a smile onto his face. 

“I’m ready.”

Arthur straightens, impatient, and lifts the gun. James doesn’t even have time to hear the click of its mechanism before everything goes dark.

 

 

 

 

The sun is dawning over London, and the shadows have been chased out of the mark’s – out of _Arthur’s_ \- apartment. There is a dark figure leaning over him, and it takes James a moment to realize that it’s Arthur, unhooking the tubing from his arm and carefully coiling it near the PASIV.

James pushes himself up and sees Ariadne sitting in the chair by the window. She’s looking away, and Dad is standing near her, ready in case she makes a move. He looks at James.

“We’re going home, James. Back to America. If you still want to learn about dreaming… that can be arranged.” His father is hesitant, as if every word he speaks is painful. “But you’ll never see Ariadne again. Do you understand?”

James’ thoughts are still fuzzy, but he hears the resignation in his father’s voice. “Why? What are you going to do?” Alarmed, James stumbles up. He knows that Ariadne has done terrible things, but she taught him, brought him into the dreaming when no one else would. He can’t just abandon her to some terrible fate.

Dad frowns. “Nothing. Ariadne has agreed to leave the dreaming. She’ll relinquish her equipment and contacts in dreamshare, and return to being an architect full time. I’ll ask Saito to monitor her, and ensure that she doesn’t try anything like this again.”

Arthur slides off the bed and tightens the knot on his tie, buttoning the top button of his shirt. “I don’t think that will be enough.”

James watches Ariadne’s face as she stares out the window. It’s still, but there’s a tightness around her eyes that James recognizes as sadness, as mourning. What does Arthur have planned?

 _Trust no one_.

“She taught me,” James finds himself saying. “Without her, I wouldn’t be here.”

“She’s killed,” Arthur reminds him, sharply, and James looks away, flushing.

“So have you,” Ariadne snaps, rounding on him. Her fingers claw the arms of her chair and she snarls at him.

“That was war,” Arthur says.

But the thought sticks with James. Are Arthur’s crimes any less terrible? He’d known what he doing when he killed. Ariadne hadn’t. The logic circles in his mind, gumming up his thoughts until all he wants to be gone, away from this whole situation.

James shoves his hands into his pockets. His totem is there, the sands thrumming beneath his grasp. He idly turns it over and over, needing something to occupy his fingers. 

James forces himself to look into his father’s pale eyes. 

Dad looks like he wants to come over, talk to James, but James can’t allow that. He looks back at Ariadne and discovers that she’s staring at his father. Now that he’s here, she hasn’t looked at James once.

James backs away and sits heavily down on the bed. It figures. She never wanted him after all. Dad watches him, and this time his gaze is sad. He turns away and walks across the room, past Arthur and Ariadne, pausing by the far wall.

“You can never see her again, you know.”

Something within James twists and plummets, despite everything, but he quickly sees that his father is talking to Arthur.

Arthur answers with a short nod.

“I know you might be tempted to kill her, or taunt her somehow, but you can’t. You won’t. I’ll make sure of that.”

James’s gaze snaps to his father at what he hears in his tone. He’s stopped next to the painting on the wall facing the bed – it’s dark and violent, featuring a seated woman screaming, distorted in the center of the composition. 4 He’s holding something long and bright in his hand. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about Ariadne for much longer. In fact, you won’t remember her at all when you wake up.”

James remembers then what the thrumming sands in his totem mean – they’re still dreaming, and all this is a lie. It’s a second dream, hidden like a secret within the first. _Of course_. He remembers now - Ariadne had brought him to the classroom for one last practice, a last run through of the dream. And when he’d woken in the elevator, he had assumed they were in reality, that they were heading for the mark. And they were, but not as James had thought. Why hadn’t he checked his totem? He curses his stupidity. It’s a trap, so elaborate and well constructed that even now he can barely see the shape of it. 

This is about Arthur, that much he knows. Ariadne wants to destroy him, and she’ll do whatever she has to accomplish that.

His gaze darts around, sighting Ariadne’s fiercely triumphant grin and the way Arthur rears back, reaches for a gun that isn’t there.

“Traitor,” he hisses. “You’re with _her_.”

Dad nods. “Of course. Ariadne was never a danger. Saito and I have been watching her for years. You’re the one who must be stopped – you’ve been trying to kill her for three years now, and all she’s done in return is try to erase herself from your mind. She wanted to spare you.”

“She killed Eames! Or had you forgotten that?”

“No,” Dad says, lifting the long knife he holds.

Ariadne rises from her seat and walks over to Dad. She takes the knife.

Arthur smiles, then. It’s a sad, twisted thing. “So you tricked me into revealing the secret that Ariadne wanted. I never thought you’d betray me like this. You taught me about the dreaming long before you met her. Why, after all she’s done, did you choose _her_?”

He backs away from them and spreads his hands wide.

“She hasn’t changed,” Dad says. “After all this time, she’s still a brilliant dreamer. You’ve become too much the killer. I don’t think you can lay your gun down anymore, Arthur.”

James imagines Eames, then, standing behind Arthur sadly, his hand resting on his shoulder. Arthur pulls away, snarling.

“And how do you plan to stop me?” he asks. “She deserves to die. She’s been lucky these past few years, but that can’t hold for much longer.” He snarls and dives to the side, snatching a gun from the bedside table behind James.

James flinches away. Arthur presses the muzzle of the gun under his chin. He pulls the trigger, and falls. 

“No!” James shouts, because he can’t take this any more. It’s driving him crazy, all this hatred. He can feel it seething on the edge of his senses, crackling like electricity and pressing in on him with the weight of the entire ocean.

Ariadne snarls, and plunges the knife into a canvas which has suddenly gone blank.

James lets the feeling within him grow and grow, and then releases it. A storm breaks outside the window, plunging them into darkness and howling, throwing itself up against the glass between it and them. Just because James doesn’t have a gun, doesn’t mean that he’ll let Arthur kill Ariadne. If they’re going to wake up, they’ll do it together.

With a wild crack, the window shatters and the storm rushes in, whipping Ariadne off balance and forcing her away from the painting. She screams. James stays steady and watches as the storm grows, shrieks, and devours them all.

 

 

 

 

-

Arthur has yanked the tubing from his wrist and is rolling out of his seat, onto the worn floor of Ariadne’s classroom. He grabs for his gun, holstered in a harness over his shoulder. Ariadne scrambles up in her own chair, shaking her head to clear it, trailing tubing.

There is a loud bang and James flinches, limp in his own seat. Ariadne freezes and then moans, curling down and around herself. Arthur stands still, arms extended in front of him, chest heaving.

Next to James, there is a clatter, and he turns to see Dad surging up from his own seat. He lurches towards Arthur, pauses to pull the needle from his wrist, and then creeps closer. Arthur swings the gun towards him briefly, then back to Ariadne. He shakes his head, blinking blearily. Dad stops, arms spread wide.

James forces himself up. _We’re awake_ , he thinks, his mind scrambling to catch up with what’s happening. He pulls the needle from his arm and stands cautiously, holding his breath.

“Stop,” Dad snaps in a tone that makes James grit his teeth. “This has gone too far.”

Arthur’s smile is sad behind his raised hands. “I agree. Which is why you won’t kill me, Dom. Let me finish this quickly. It’s been _three years_.”

James’ hand is in his pocket, checking to be sure. The sands in his hourglass are still. Ariadne’s breath whines in her throat, painfully loud in the sudden silence. James darts forward, around Dad, and stands between Arthur and Ariadne.

He lurches to a halt, his legs and feet not quite working properly. Then, after a moment, he forces himself to straighten despite the fact that it feels like every one of his muscles has locked up solid. He looks right at Arthur, breath shuddering. This is reality. If he dies here, he dies for good.

“She…” His voice shakes and he’s forced to pause and swallow. “She doesn’t deserve to die. She made a _mistake_. And… and she wouldn’t have killed you. All she wanted was to be free.”

“Move,” Arthur snaps. “You don’t understand. She was going to erase my memories of her, but it was because of her that Eames and I fell in love. She brought us together in the first place. If she takes those memories, I’ll forget Eames, too. I’ll forget what we had. And it would be the same as death.” He takes a deep breath and straightens further, narrowing his gaze. “I’m going to end this now.”

“No,” James says, stepping forward. He reaches out for the gun. “I’ll do it. Please.”

Arthur’s gaze finally shifts to meet James’, and it’s dark, anguished. When he blinks, there is a shining wetness to his eyes. He begins to shift towards James.

 _Crack!_ The gunshot snaps through James and he freezes, thinking, _I’m dead_.

But it is only his arm that explodes into pain, and he shouts belatedly, flinching away towards his father and gripping at the upper part of his arm desperately. He feels a hot warmth against his fingers. Arthur stumbles back and his gun clatters to the floor – he didn’t pull the trigger; he’s been shot.

James whips around and sees that Ariadne is holding a small gun, grinning fiercely. Her hands are smeared with blood and her smile is toothy. A pit of horror opens in James’ stomach.

Arthur forces himself to standing, one arm hanging limply by his side. He lunges forward, towards Ariadne, and James feels Dad push him aside to get between them. Arthur stumbles, reaches down and fumbles at something near his ankle. Finally he yanks it up, hissing, and takes his last step.

He plunges the knife into Ariadne’s chest, just above her heart.

She arches, gaping silently and clawing as Arthur. He bows over her as she hisses and James’ breath is frozen in his chest, which is the only reason that he hears her last gasped words, “I only wish I’d killed him sooner.” Arthur flinches away, red marks already rising on his cheeks. She reaches down for the knife and wraps her hands around the handle, grasping tightly.

Her eyes roll and flare at Arthur, and her breath comes in short gasps. Arthur snarls and leans back, with James’ father almost upon him. He reaches down and grabs the knife handle, wrenching it back, through Ariadne’s fingers and out of her chest. Her cry is a tiny thing.

Dad lunges for Arthur, but he whirls, knife out, and Dad is forced to stumble back. He takes a few steps backwards, then lunges for something on the floor. While he’s distracted, Arthur moves across the wood floor and up the stairs, shoes clattering as he runs.

Numb, James steps forward and kneels by Ariadne. He reaches out to take her hand, but her palm is too slick and his fingers slip away. She stares at the ceiling far above, gaze blank. Her breath wheezes in her chest and James can see the blood, so dark it’s almost black, pumping quickly from the wound in her chest.

He reaches out, takes the fabric of her shirt to press it to the wound. She sighs, a whistling exhale that seems like it will never stop, and then it does. And there’s nothing left to do.

James’ shuddering breath is like a sob and he pushes back, away from her. Her draws his knees to his chest and then looks for Dad.

He’s lifted Arthur’s gun and aimed it, still as a statue, at the door to the classroom. Yet there’s no one there – Arthur is long gone.

-

“Saito?” Dad is on the phone as they climb out of the cab, but he still pauses and waits for James to get out before walking towards Phil’s apartment building. “No, not as planned. You’ll find her body in the classroom.”

James pushes open the door and holds it for his father. His shoulder throbs, but at least it’s stopped bleeding.

“I need you to find Arthur. He’s killed her, and now he’s running. You need to track him down for me.”

They step into the elevator together and the doors slide closed.

“Good, thank you. I’ll call soon.” With that he hangs up and shoves the phone into his pocket.

They ride up to Phil’s floor in silence. As the bell rings and the door open, James remembers to dig in his pocket and pull out his keys. He walks to Phil’s door and opens it.

Phil bounds up to James as soon as he steps inside, wrapping him in a tight hug. “What _happened_ , you little shit? It’s getting late! You said you’d call, but I haven’t heard anything. How did it go?”

James hugs her back tightly, burying his face in her neck, and then feels her freeze in his arms. “Dad?” she whispers. “What are you doing here?” Her voice cracks and she pushes out of James’ embrace.

He hears Phil awkwardly hedging around the fact that she too has been lying to Dad for months, but doesn’t stay to listen. He doesn’t care, really. At the moment he feels numb, dead inside. So he walks into the bedroom, with the tall window and a sill big enough to sit on, and ducks under the curtain.

For once, it’s bright outside. He reaches for the latches of the window and pulls them open. He tries to push the window open, but it grinds and groans, stuck. He shoves again, and feels it shift again, ever so slightly. Finally it pops free, swinging out on one side almost a foot, and James falls forward against it.

He stares down at the London street, stories below. For once, he’s steady. Nothing churns in his stomach, and his knees don’t weaken. He smiles and pushes away from the glass, sitting down on the sill.

Chill, fresh air rushes in around James and he sighs, leaning back and closing his eyes.

All he can see is her blood, so dark as it poured from her and so bright on the palms of his hands. Her brown eyes, dulled and wide. She had been beautiful, once. Why can’t he remember that? Why is the only thing he can remember her last words, and the hatred she’d hissed them with?

Were they true? Had she known what she was doing when she’d killed Eames?

James feels his chest tighten and his throat ache, and he squeezes his eyes tightly shut.

-

A heavy hand on his shoulder brings James up out of his black dream, and he shivers. He blinks against the glare of the streetlamp and turns to see his father leaning over him, holding out a mug. James flexes fingers turned numb by the cold air and reaches for it.

It’s searing hot in his grip, and he draws it close. The scent wafts up around him. Hot milk and honey. A smile flashes onto James’ face and he feels the sudden urge to cry again. He chokes it down and takes a burning sip.

Dad sits down on the edge of the bed, facing him. “Did you know that Ariadne was only a few years older than you when I first met her?”

James’ heart thuds in his chest and he shakes his head.

“She was a student in Paris. Your grandfather recommended her to me, saying that she was the very best he had, and he was right. She was brilliant, talented, and an utter natural at the dreaming. She worked with me on my very last job.” He pauses, and James rests the hot mug in his lap. “Sometimes, though, I wished that I’d kept dreaming, so that I could see what she would accomplish. I only spoke with her a few times over the years, you know – enough to hear about what happened with Eames. I had an old friend - Saito - keep track of her, and so I knew how Arthur was tracking her, trying to kill her. I was frightened of what she could do, though, after Eames. If I hadn’t come here to track you down, I don’t think I would have spoken to her again.”

“Arthur did call, to tell me he’d seen you,” Dad says. “And then I spoke to you and knew something was wrong, so I flew over. I arrived last night and spoke with Ariadne. She told me what she’d planned, and I knew immediately that I had to help her. If she was right, and she could erase all of Arthur’s tainted memories with one act, then she could end this feud with one stroke. She could start over. She could work with Arthur again.” Dad sighs. “I agreed to help her, and set the trap, but even that wasn’t enough. Arthur was too determined, too full of hatred to be stopped.”

Silence falls between them. James thinks he has the answers, finally; that he’s worked it all out. But he can’t be sure. “Would they have worked together again?” he asks. “If Ariadne had succeeded, would she have been able to work with Arthur, even knowing that she’d killed his lover?”

Dad doesn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he says.

James nods. So it’s true, then. 

_Trust no one._

“What do you think about the dreaming, James?”

It’s too vast a question, too unquantifiable. James swallows. “What do you mean? I hate what just happened. I wish I’d never come to London.”

“But the dreaming itself. How do you feel about it?”

James considers for a long moment before answering with the truth. “I _love_ it,” he says, the words dragged from him by his own passion.

A smile flashes across Dad’s face. “I know exactly how you feel.”

He says the words so low and quiet that, for the first time, James believes him. He wonders how hard it must have been for Dad to give up the dreaming, give up all that adventure and creation to come and raise Phil and he in a small house with nothing but neighboring fields to serve as a playground.

“You were lucky to study under Ariadne,” Dad says. “I think you’re the only student she ever took on.”

He stands, groaning slightly as he straightens, and then turns towards the door.

“Wait,” James says, as something suddenly occurs to him. Dad turns to look back at him. “If you hadn’t spoken to Ariadne for years, how did you have her phone number? Her current number, written on one of your old papers. Why did you have it?” _And why was it so easy for me to find_?

“Did you enjoy dreaming with Ariadne?” Dad asks in return.

James blinks in surprise. “Yes, of course.”

Dad smiles and nods, then turns away, walking from the room.

A chill runs through James. It was all lies. Dad had left the phone number out, in plain sight, on papers which he knew James would be too curious to resist looking through. He let James find Ariadne’s number because he wanted James to enter the dreaming. He wanted James to help Ariadne, because he couldn’t do so himself. Why couldn’t he have just _told_ James about Ariadne? Why couldn’t have have been honest, for once?

Carefully, because Phil will be angry later if he spills any, James places the mug of milk on the sill next to him. He feels nauseous.

-

James has been thinking for a long time. He stares down onto the dark street, listening to the sound of cars below, letting the raw evening air flow in and around him. It helps him to be still, and to just think.

Ariadne wanted a blank slate; a new beginning with Arthur. As she was dying, she’d said, “I only wish I’d killed him sooner,” and had to be referring to Eames, because he was the only person who made sense. She must have hated Eames so much, and yet she’d loved Arthur enough to try and fix things between them. 

James buries his face in his hands. She must have planned the whole thing, from start to finish. Eames’ death, the erasure of Arthur’s memories, and the reunion which never came to pass. The only thing she hadn’t planned for must have been the way her actions had haunted her - the way the emptiness inside her, manifested in the desert where she’d murdered Eames, had followed her for years after. It had prevented her from dreaming properly, and James had been the one last, desperate piece she needed to complete her plan. In a way, she hadn’t lied to James at all. 

Dad had; he’d worked with Ariadne almost every step of the way.

James wonders for how long Ariadne had been insane; how long it had driven her actions.

The hourglass is in his hands. It feels strangely heavy, so he lifts it and stares into the sands. They trickle downward, grain by grain. No hope that this is a dream, then. It’s all real, and Ariadne is still dead; still a monster and still his teacher.

James lets his gaze drift back out to the street and it catches upon a patch of red – the sharp lines of a phone box jutting up from the pavement. He wonders idly if anyone uses them anymore and then remembers something else.

A thrill runs through James and he stands, feels for his wallet in his back pocket – it’s still there. He leaves the bedroom, striding quickly through Phil’s apartment.

“James!” Phil calls, but he just grabs his coat and ignores her. The door slams behind him.

He clatters down the stairs of the building because he can’t stand to wait for the elevator, and slams out onto the street. There he pauses, panting, to catch his breath and get his bearings. There. The phone box is to his left.

He turns and walks down the street, yanking his wallet out.

As he pulls the door open and steps carefully inside, he works the card from his wallet – white and dog-eared, with just a number written in black across the front. It’s Arthur’s card, which he gave James in the museum.

James pauses, then pulls out change.

He doesn’t really want to press the phone to his ear, but his hands shake, and he’s forced to in order to avoid dropping it. It rings three times, the tone echoing down the line, and James grows more tense with each jangle.

Then, with a click, the line is picked up. Nothing; no voice, no sound. There is only silence.

“Hello?” James tries, and swallows around the sensation in his throat. He can do this, he reminds himself. After all, a woman has just died under his hands. He can make a simple phone call.

“Arthur? It’s James,” he tries again. The silence holds still, and he stops. “I want to talk.”

And then, from the other end of the line, the warm voice comes, welcome and thrilling in ways that James can’t begin to explain.

“So do I.”

 

 

 

the end

 

 

 

 

 

1 Labyrinth on Wikipedia: The relevant paragraph reads, in entirety:

> In colloquial English, labyrinth is generally synonymous with maze, but many contemporary scholars observe a distinction between the two: maze refers to a complex branching (multicursal) puzzle with choices of path and direction; while a single-path (unicursal) labyrinth has only a single, non-branching path, which leads to the center. A labyrinth in this sense has an unambiguous route to the center and back and is not designed to be difficult to navigate.

2 The three paintings which James sees in the mark’s apartment are, respectively: Lucien Freud’s portrait of Francis Bacon, Bacon’s Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion, and Bacon’s Study for the Head of George Dyer (a thief who later became his lover).

3 Current day visitors to the museums of London may note that that Post-War Modernist paintings, like the one James is looking at, belong in the Tate Modern, not the British Museum. Well, who is to say that in ten to fifteen years, when this story is set, those museum will not have merged their collections? It is _entirely_ possible.

4 This dark, screaming portrait was never painted, and is instead a manifestation of Arthur’s mind. It is modeled after Francis Bacon’s Study after Velázquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X, for reasons that may be, or may become, obvious. 


End file.
